


Seeking Sirius

by ChronoXtreme



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Dimitri, Court Politics, Emotionless Byleth (at first), F/M, Falling In Love, Feat. the author's dubious attempts at court politics and worldbuilding, King Dimitri, One-Sided Attraction (at first), Pining, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Religious Politics, Rufus Blaiddyd made the rating go up, Slow Burn, has a happy ending i swear, inspired by the Dimileth discord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 101,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21883483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronoXtreme/pseuds/ChronoXtreme
Summary: “This would be nothing more than securing a firmer alliance with the Church," Rodrigue explained gently.“Through marriage,” Dimitri ground out.“Yes,” Rodrigue agreed. “Through marriage.”With the Kingdom of Faerghus in desperate need of stability and a stronger alliance with the Church of Seiros, Dimitri is advised to marry the scion of Archbishop Rhea, Lady Eisner. Though an arranged marriage is something he has never wished for, he will do anything to improve the lives of his people.The only problem is that Lady Eisner's hand is the most sought after in all of Fodlan. And even if she decides he's worthy enough for her hand, what then?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 479
Kudos: 1385





	1. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodrigue suggests that Dimitri propose to the Lady Eisner at Garreg Mach's Millennial Celebration to strengthen ties with the Church of Seiros and gain access to its knights.
> 
> Dimitri is not thrilled with the idea, to say the least.

“Your Majesty, I would not be suggesting this if it were not for the good of the people,” Rodrigue said quietly, his posture impeccable as he handed Dimitri the gilded invitation across his desk.

Dimitri’s posture on the other hand was a slumping mess as he wearily took the thick parchment in his hand — idly, he wondered if the scribes at Garreg Mach had chosen a thicker stock because of his strength. The invitation itself was simple yet elegant, penned in a deep verdant ink: _Her Holiness, the Archbishop Rhea, requests your presence for the millennial anniversary celebration of Garreg Mach Monastery’s dedication and consecration._

It was indeed an innocent enough invitation, with the date and details for a ball enclosed on a separate sheet of parchment. Yet what Rodrigue was proposing was anything but innocent.

“You’re asking me to seduce the scion of the Archbishop,” Dimitri said flatly, dropping the invitation on his desk as he massaged his temple with the other. He’d already had a headache brewing before this whole conversation even started, and the subject matter certainly wasn’t helping. 

“‘Seduce’ is a rather strong word for what I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” Rodrigue said flatly, raising an eyebrow. “This would be nothing more than securing a firmer alliance with the Church.”

“Through marriage,” Dimitri ground out. 

“Yes,” Rodrigue agreed. “Through marriage.” 

The very idea galled Dimitri. His father had married the love of his life, Queen Alicia, and though he had never known his birth mother, tales of their affection and devotion for each other were whispered in the castle halls to this day. And while Father’s marriage to Queen Patricia had been political — how could a marriage to a king be considered anything but? — they had still loved each other, courting for a year before his proposal. 

Growing up, Dimitri had expected the same for himself: he would meet the love of his life sometime shortly after his return from the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach (well, that was what Sylvain goaded him to do; Dimitri was perfectly fine with waiting a few more years). They would court for a lengthy season — a year or two, perhaps longer — so Dimitri would truly know his future spouse: what brought smiles to their lips, how much they cared about the kingdom and their people. Their marriage would be a replica of his father’s, filled with laughter and joy. 

He should have known that any chance for that sort of life was dead along with his family after Duscur. 

Knowing was different from feeling, however, and the thought of proposing to the Archbishop’s heir without even getting the chance to meet her first made his stomach churn. “I don’t know her, Rodrigue. I’ve never even _seen_ her before.” Rhea was famously an enigma, her heir even more so. He didn’t even know her first name, only the surname: Eisner. 

“My sources at Garreg Mach have told me Lady Eisner is a reasonable woman,” Rodrigue countered gently. “Lately, Lady Rhea has allowed her to have say in hearings regarding church dissidents. Her judgements have always been fair and just.” He paused, then added, “They also say she is quite a rare beauty.”

Dimitri flushed, rooting his gaze to the desk; was he talking to his most trusted advisor or Sylvain? “Is this truly necessary, Rodrigue?” he asked once more, unable to mask the strain in his voice. “We already have ties with the Church; our history binds us together. Surely an arranged marriage is just a formality; besides, the political upheaval of such a union—”

“Would be minimal.” Rodrigue sighed as he leaned forward. “Lady Rhea will not be stepping down from her role as Archbishop for quite some time, and Lady Eisner has not officially been declared as her heir. Trust me, Your Majesty, I wouldn’t be proposing this marriage if it would lead to Faerghus’s ruin.” He paused.

“Nor would I propose it if it truly had no benefit besides political clout. You are correct; history does connect us and the Church. But that connection is thin and tenuous now; the Church barely intervened when we needed them most in Duscur. With this marriage, we would have direct influence on the Archbishop herself, as well as have access to the Knights of Seiros. Our forces are weak from the Tragedy — even now, Dimitri,” he said sternly as Dimitri’s lips parted to object. “The insurrections and unrest have left us vulnerable, not to mention the rising banditry problem. With the support of the Church and the Knights of Seiros through your marriage to Lady Eisner, Faerghus’s citizens would have the stability and security they _need.”_

Teeth gritted, Dimitri’s stare fell back down to his desk. He couldn’t argue with that; in fact, he shouldn’t be arguing with Rodrigue at all. As Faerghus’s king, he was to live and die for his people. Refusing a deal that would improve their lives simply due to his distaste for the idea was only selfish and petty. 

That selfish and petty part of him was far larger than he’d ever like to admit, however. 

Swallowing, he stared down at the parchment lying on his desk, with its clean lettering and elegant gilding. It almost seemed to mock him with how simple it was. 

“When do we leave for the monastery?” he asked quietly, looking up at Rodrigue with resignation.

* * *

The chilly air on the balcony was a pleasant contrast to the burning in his throat as Dimitri sipped at his brandy. Alcohol was normally a vice he tried to avoid, as it dulled what fragile control over his strength he had left. Yet the Millennial Celebration loomed over him like a storm cloud, and he desperately craved something to ease the nervousness pooling in his stomach. He stared down at the amber liquid in the steel cup — no crystal or glass for a bearer of the Crest of Blaiddyd — as if he could find an escape from this situation in its depths.

“It grows late, Your Majesty.” Dedue’s voice rumbled from behind him, and Dimitri glanced back to see the large man’s silhouette against the glow of the fireplace inside. “You will have an early day tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. Somehow, despite his anxiety whenever he thought of the date of the millenium festival, it had snuck up on him. Tomorrow they would leave for Garreg Mach Monastery, a place he had not visited in over five years. 

And there, he would do his best to charm Lady Eisner into agreeing to marry him. 

He tossed back another gulp of brandy at the thought. _If only it will be as simple as Rodrigue makes it out to be._ While he didn’t know Lady Eisner at all, he knew _of_ her, and there was one fact that stuck out about the rest.

Her hand was the most sought after in Fódlan.

After he’d agreed to Rodrigue’s plan, he’d requested information on the elusive scion of Archbishop Rhea. The results were disappointingly scarce, due to her anonymity and lack of sightings outside Garreg Mach, but everyone he’d spoken to emphasized how popular she was regarding proposals of marriage. Ever since her age of majority, ambitious lords and ladies had sent her their offers, only to be rejected each time. Rumors said that the numbers of these rejections loomed somewhere in the hundreds.

And the Millenial Festival would be the perfect time for all the nobles in attendance to attempt their own proposals. “I’m not saying that everyone who’s there is gonna get down on one knee and give her rings,” Sylvain had said teasingly, “but you’re gonna go up against some stiff competition, Your Majesty.” 

"Stiff competition" was an understatement, Dimitri mused grimly. Emperor Edelgard and Claude Von Riegan, leader of the Leicester Alliance, would be attending the festival as well. While Dimitri didn’t know much about Von Riegan besides his political expertise, he knew that Edelgard would spring at the opportunity to gain a powerful ally in the Church of Seiros. He doubted Von Riegan would pass up the chance to propose either. 

The Adrestrian Empire was Fódlan’s crowing jewel, established by Saint Seiros herself. While Edelgard’s overturn of the Insurrection of the Seven was looked upon negatively, her country itself was stronger than ever. The Leicester Alliance boasted a strong network of trade and a growing political clout. Both the Empire and the Alliance were far more financially stable than the Kingdom.

And Dimitri was somehow supposed to convince Lady Eisner to marry him: the king of a suffering nation, still torn apart by the Tragedy seven years later and limping along to barely survive. 

_Please._ Glenn snorted, and he squeezed his eye shut at the sound. _You know why you’re really afraid. Do you honestly think she’d engage herself to a monster like you?_

_Someone who let us all d—_

“Your Majesty?” 

Dimitri shivered, not from the cold, then turned to face Dedue. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he answered softly. “I’m just… lost in thought tonight.”

“That is understandable,” Dedue said softly, stepping out into the night air. “The Millenial Fair will be an event of great significance.” He stood at Dimitri’s side, and Dimitri smiled at the gesture; for seven years he’d been trying to coax Dedue to see themselves as equals, with the man refusing each time in an attempt to respect Dimitri’s station. However, time had dulled that mentality; instead of standing behind him, Dedue stood by him. It was a difference that Dimitri was proud to see in his friend. 

If only the rest of the world could see it the same way.

“Are you nervous, Your Majesty?” Dedue asked, his voice barely audible over the wind. 

“I’m terrified,” Dimitri answered frankly, chuckling bitterly as he looked over the balcony. Beneath him, the lights of Fhirdiad flickered in the darkness, like tiny candle flames. “But… it must be done.” 

“Must it?” Dedue looked at him with a somber expression. “To sacrifice your happiness for the sake of the kingdom…”

“It must be done,” Dimitri repeated quietly. “My happiness matters little compared to the safety of our people. Of _your_ people.” Swallowing thickly, he faced Dedue. “With the Knights of Seiros, perhaps Duscur can finally receive the protection it deserves.”

“Perhaps,” Dedue admitted, his voice somber. “Nevertheless, your happiness does matter, Your Majesty.” His hands rested on the balcony’s railing. “Yet if this is what you believe must be done, then I will support you as best I can.” 

“Thank you, Dedue.” Dimitri glanced down at the empty cup in his hand, the burning of the alcohol starting to warm his blood. 

“Though you may require the support of Lord Gautier more than mine. He is well experienced in these sorts of matters,” Dedue added offhandedly.

With a groan, Dimitri sank down onto the railing, burying his face in his folded arms. “Goddess, don’t remind me.” The fact that he would probably have to approach Sylvain in regards to wooing Lady Eisner was mortifying to him. And if Felix and Ingrid were there, it would only be worse. He could already hear the dagger jokes they’d make at his expense. 

“Then I will remind you instead that we have a long day of travel ahead tomorrow, and it is best that you get as much rest as possible,” Dedue prompted gently. 

Wordlessly Dimitri nodded, pulling away from the balcony to enter his chambers. Dedue followed, crossing to the door. “Good night, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, bowing as he exited.

“Good night, Dedue. And thank you again.” Dedue’s presence always had a way of settling him when he was at his most anxious. As the door clicked shut, Dimitri prepared himself for bed, dressing in nightclothes before extinguishing the candles and slipping beneath the covers. It would be another sleepless night, he knew, but Dedue was right: he’d need all the strength he could for the days ahead. 

As he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, he wondered what meeting Lady Eisner would be like. It was a terrifying thought, but somehow a small spark of curiosity cut through the fear and trepidation. Rodrigue had spoken of fairness and beauty, and most of the lords and ladies he'd consulted with about her agreed that while mysterious, she was known for her level head and equal regard to all. 

Perhaps... Perhaps he could see this opportunity as more than just a way to help his kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I churned this one out in a crazy frenzy (without a beta reader rip) so forgive the roughness. I will probably go back and edit this chapter to have better flow. 
> 
> The timeline for this AU is slightly different; the Tragedy of Duscur happened the year before Dimitri entered the Officer's Academy, so the effects are more fresh on the minds of the people. Plus, with no war, he's in a... more composed state of mind. 
> 
> (Also, there's a reason why Byleth is so mysterious... which will be explained in future chapters. :)


	2. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri expects that the journey to Garreg Mach Monastery will be filled with courting "advice" from Sylvain, complaining from Felix, and many lectures from Ingrid.
> 
> He's right on all accounts, but didn't exactly expect an ambush by bandits to be included.
> 
> CW: swearing, descriptions of violence

“The most important thing when it comes to charming a girl,” Sylvain instructed with all the authority of a professor, pointer finger aloft in the air as he sat in the saddle, “is first impressions.”

Dimitri was torn between pulling his cloak over his head in sheer embarrassment or frantically paying attention to his friend’s “lectures.” As it was, he was forced to listen either way. It was more than a week of travel from Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach Monastery, and Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix had joined him for the journey. They too had been invited to the Millennial Celebration, as well as an exclusive ball to be attended by only the highest ranking nobles.

It would be at this ball that Dimitri would do his best to win the hand of the Lady Eisner. Along with practically everyone else in attendance.

 _Well, not Ingrid and Felix,_ he thought wryly, looking over towards them. Astride their own mounts, they kept good pace with Sylvain and Dimitri, though Felix’s face looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon and Ingrid’s fingers twitched around her reins. 

“You said yesterday that it was, and I quote, ‘good looks’ that mattered most when charming a woman,” she pointed out sharply, looking scandalized that they were even having this conversation.

“Yeah, and as you can see, Dimitri’s kind of screwed in that department,” Sylvain said flippantly, waving a hand towards Dimitri airily. “I mean, no one can be as gorgeous as me, but—”

“Why the hell are we even talking about this?” Felix snapped. “It’s not like the boar has a chance of getting her to marry him anyway.” 

Dimitri cringed, sinking low into the saddle as he stared at his horse’s mane. _He’s right._

“That is _not_ true, Felix,” Sylvain countered with a pout, wagging his finger. “True, His Majesty looks like a hopeless case right now. But when I’m done with him, all the women of Fódlan are going to throw themselves at his feet.” 

“That’s hardly necessary,” Dimitri protested, shooting a sour look at Sylvain.

“Is it?” Sylvain teased with a sly grin. “I mean, Lady Eisner’s gotten how many proposals?”

“Some say that it’s over five hundred,” Ingrid said softly, her gaze moody as she stared into the distance. Dimitri winced; the topic was a sore spot for Ingrid, as her father insisted that marriage would be the solution to her house’s financial woes. House Galatea had never been large or particularly prosperous, but a wave of poor harvests and blights on their crops had set them on the path to poverty.

 _Just as the Kingdom is._ It was a bitter fact, but true — if matters continued on their present course, Galatea’s citizens wouldn’t be the only ones with barren lands. There were already too many empty stomachs as it was. 

Still, Dimitri couldn’t help the jealous spark that coursed through him as he looked at Ingrid. While her situation was precarious, she at least had been able to refuse each offer of marriage that her father had presented her with. He tamped it down with a deep breath, exhaling loudly through his nose. _Stop being so petty. Her situation is no easier than yours._

“See?” Sylvain waved his hand in a dramatic flourish. “Everyone’s going after Lady Eisner, if only so that they can have the Church in their back pocket. If Dimitri’s gonna woo her over to Faerghus, he needs to stand out.” His grin widened as he bobbed an eyebrow at Dimitri. “Like he did at the Academy. He was a babe magnet back then.”

A flush erupted across Dimitri’s face and neck. “I was _no_ such thing!” 

“Yes, you were!” Sylvain crowed, laughing as Dimitri slunked down in the saddle, desperately fighting the urge to throw his cloak over his head. “Oh goddess, don’t you remember that girl, the one who kept on wanting to dance with you at the Ethereal Moon Ball! What was her name?”

“Lady Ivette, and Sylvain, this is _hardly_ appropriate talk,” Ingrid complained.

“And remember Garland Moon? Dimitri got so many flowers he couldn’t fit them in his room!” Sylvain was cackling now, and Dimitri couldn’t get his blush off his cheeks no matter how hard he tried. “The second we were out of class, he was swarmed! Covered in white roses!”

“I-I wasn’t!” Dimitri’s feeble protests were drowned out by Felix swearing at Sylvain and telling him to, more or less, shut his mouth. True, there had been a few female classmates that had been rather friendly with him. Some even asked him to help with their lancework, or brought him some baked goods after dinner, but the numbers were nowhere near as high as Sylvain suggested. He _did_ remember the amount of girls Sylvain had snuck into his dormitory after midnight, however — it had hardly helped him sleep, and that was ignoring the nightmares.

“Anyway, as I was saying — Felix, ow, stop that! — we need to work on your first impressions,” Sylvain said, batting Felix’s sheathed sword away with the butt of his lance. “Since you’re gonna meet Lady Eisner at the ball and then propose straight away.”

Four Saints. Was that what the other nobles in attendance would do? Dimitri cringed at the thought: a veritable line of lords and ladies, rings in hand, each waiting for their turn to croon sweet nothings and empty platitudes at the Archbishop’s scion. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with his own anxiety. _And she’s been receiving proposals for years. Since… Since before I entered the academy._

What sort of life was that? To constantly be sought after, only for the prestige and connections her position would bring?

 _And I’m going to do the same thing._ He clenched the reins in both of his hands, swallowing thickly. _Just another man in a long line of those desperate for power._

Goddess, what would his father think of him?

 _It’s your fault that you’re here. You let the kingdom sink so low that you have no other choice. What would I_ think _of you? You’re a disgrace, Dimitri. A failure._

_Can’t save us, can’t save your people, can’t save anyone, can’t save yourself—_

“—mitri! Hey, earth to Dimitri!” 

He blinked, looking up to see Sylvain waving his hand in front of his face. “You’re missing out on all my advice,” he complained, pouting. “Come on, I know this whole situation sucks—”

“That’s an understatement,” Felix grumbled, hand still on his sword’s hilt. 

“— but we’ve only got eight days until we get to Garreg Mach.” 

“Yes, and eight days is plenty of time for His Majesty to learn all you can teach him,” Ingrid responded dryly. “Leave him be, Sylvain. I’m sure he has a lot on his mind.” 

“It’s all right, Ingrid,” Dimitri said tiredly, glancing at the three of them. He was grateful for her steadying presence; normally he relied on Dedue to be a calming influence, but due to most horses’ skittish reactions to him, he was riding in the supply cart in the back. “Sylvain is just trying to help. And I do appreciate it. I just…” He stared back at his stallion’s mane, feeling the exhaustion of last night’s lack of sleep press down on him. “It just is an idea that will take some getting used to. Proposing to a woman I’ve never met.” And heaven forbid that he’d do exactly as Sylvain said; he could never just get down on one knee and beg for her hand with a straight face. 

“Hey.” Surprisingly, it was Felix that spoke first. “It’ll be just like that awful Ethereal Moon ball. Dance, eat some food, drink some champagne—” He cut himself off with a grimace. “Okay, no champagne for you. You might break her hands.” 

Another blush consumed Dimitri’s face as he swallowed down a dry throat. Felix groaned. “Anyway, just survive. It’s not like we’re going into battle.” 

“Honestly, going into battle sounds easier than this,” Dimitri confessed. 

“Oh, it’s a battle, all right,” Sylvain chimed in, waggling his eyebrows. “A battle for the heart of a maiden is the most exciting kind of all— ouch, _Ingrid!”_

“What Sylvain _means_ to say is that we’re on your side, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said staunchly, giving him a warm smile. “And we’ll support you no matter what. And even if Lady Eisner doesn’t accept your proposal, I’m sure we’ll be able to find a solution to the Kingdom’s problems. Faerghus has always survived the worst storms imaginable. We can weather this one too.” 

For the first time that day, Dimitri actually found it in himself to smile.

* * *

The next six days were uneventful, which was both a blessing and a curse. While Dimitri itched for something to do besides sit in the saddle, it also was a pleasant journey, all things considered. The weather was brisk but warm, a nice contrast to the eternal cold that seemed to lie on Faerghus. And though Felix and Sylvain’s bickering was grating at times, Dimitri could think of no better company to have on this trip. When the horses needed rest, Dedue joined them, occasionally offering his solemn advice along with Sylvain’s seemingly endless lectures. 

Yet the calm gave Dimitri time for rumination. It was something he was unused to, especially after returning from the Academy and his coronation. Drowned in paperwork and visits with dignitaries and lords, it was easy to tune out the ghosts of the past. But now, he often found his thoughts wandering back to Duscur.

_With the Knights of Seiros, would there be a chance of a formal investigation? I promised Dedue that his people would finally have the protection they need, but… if we had answers, real answers…_

_Then you would finally avenge us?_

He shook his head, rubbing at his forehead as he stared at the flickering campfire. Night had fallen, and with it came the familiar chill that the fire barely managed to fend off. He’d thought that the headaches would cease with a change of scenery and less to do, but they still lingered. It seemed no amount of fresh air would help in that regard.

_Because you have done nothing for us, my son. You slave away, pandering to weak fools, instead of taking your lance in hand and seeking out those who—_

“Your Majesty?” Dimitri glanced up to see Dedue standing in front of him, a steel mug in his hands. “Some chamomile tea,” he explained. 

“Oh. Thank you.” The cup warmed his palms even through his gloves, and he had to remind himself to blow on the liquid before he sipped at it; he may have no ability to taste, but he certainly could scald his tongue. The aroma was pleasant, and he took a deep breath of it. “You always seem to know what I need, old friend,” he murmured, his gaze returning to the fire. 

Dedue chuckled, a rare sound that made Dimitri’s ears perk up. “It is no complicated task, Your Majesty. Whether a king or a pauper, we all have the same needs.” He gave Dimitri a pointed look. “Needs that we all deserve to be fulfilled.” 

“I hear your concern, Dedue.” The coals crackled as Dimitri’s shoulders slumped. “I would not be doing this if I did not deem it necessary.” He paused, then: “And I am not the only one sacrificing something if the Lady Eisner agrees to marry me.” 

“I see.” Dedue sat next to Dimitri, the log beneath them creaking from their combined weight. “Your concern extends even to those you have never seen.”

“I have not seen all of Duscur,” Dimitri pointed out, looking at Dedue somberly. “Yet if I could, I would repay their people twice over for all of their suffering. Is that not natural?”

“It is,” Dedue agreed tenuously. “Yet you are king of Faerghus, and thus king of Duscur. It is natural to care for them; they are your citizens. The Lady Eisner is not.” 

“No. But…” Dimitri gazed up at the sky, the stars’ faint light shining through the clouds. “If the rumors are true, she has been sought after for years, and all for the opportunity she provides her potential spouse. Not for her own worth. I… I cannot imagine how that must feel. If our positions were reversed, I wonder if I would bear that well.” He paused, his hands clasped in his lap as he tried to swallow past the bitter taste in his mouth. “And I will be just another suitor seeking her for my own gain.”

“Not your gain. The kingdom’s,” Dedue corrected. “You have said it yourself: if you did not deem it necessary, you would not seek Lady Eisner’s hand.” He paused, then set a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, your heart is pure. I have faith that she will see that in you. If she truly is as fair and wise as they say, then your proposal will not fall on deaf ears.” 

“Then let’s hope those rumors are true,” Dimitri said, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “It’s like Sylvain said: I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“Lord Gautier jests, I believe.” Dedue’s eyes twinkled, not just from the firelight. “I do not find your cause as hopeless as it would make it seem.” 

“Either way,” Dimitri replied, “it would take nothing short of a miracle to—”

A sudden crash echoed through camp, and immediately the two men stood, Dimitri cursing as he realized that his spear was in his tent. Were they being attacked? Dedue took a defensive position in front of Dimitri, and even without his massive shield, the man was a veritable wall. 

“What the hell’s going on?” Felix barked, sword drawn and in hand as he burst out of his tent. 

“Your Majesty!” Dimitri looked up to see Ingrid’s pegasus dipping down from the sky, feathers flying as the mount came to an abrupt landing right in the middle of camp. “I’m afraid that there’s trouble on the way!”

“Saints, you can say that again.” Dimitri’s eye widened as Sylvain slid off the pegasus’s back from behind Ingrid, his legs wobbly. “Shit…”

“Sylvain! You’re injured!” Dimitri wove around Dedue and managed to catch him before he slumped to the ground entirely. A crude arrow shaft jutted from his upper arm, blood staining his clothes. “What in the world happened?”

“Bandits,” Ingrid answered tersely, dismounting. “Sylvain and I went to visit a nearby town for supplies, but we were intercepted. If luck isn’t with us, they followed us to camp.”

Dimitri’s gaze flicked over to the edge of the clearing they were camped in, his lips pressing together as he saw the flickering of torches. Roars and shouts echoed from the trees, muffled by the foliage, but unmistakable.

“Ah hell,” Sylvain grimaced, sagging even further against Dimitri’s side. “My arm’s busted, Your Majesty.”

“No matter. Everyone, prepare for battle!” Dimitri bellowed, helping Sylvain limp over to a nearby tree. “Ingrid, take to the skies! We need a head count!”

“Already have one, Your Majesty!” she shouted back, mounting her pegasus again with spear in hand. “Twenty on foot and five archers hidden in the trees!” With a flash of feathers, she was airborne again.

 _Twenty?_ It was a fair number, but he had only brought a small honor guard of soldiers with him, as he’d assumed the closer to Garreg Mach they traveled, the safer they would be. Now they were stuck in a clearing with an engagement force double their size quickly surrounding them. Normally, Dimitri wouldn’t be troubled, but with Sylvain wounded…

“Here.” Sylvain pressed a lance to Dimitri’s chest. “I’m dead weight anyway.” Dimitri swallowed hard, then nodded, patting the man’s shoulder once.

“Dedue!” His vassal sped to his side — well, as fast as he could in full plate. “Stay with Sylvain,” Dimitri ordered. “Guard him with your life.”

“But, Your Majesty—”

“That is an order from your king,” Dimitri pressed, grasping Dedue’s shoulder. “And a request from your friend. Please.” The thieves were most likely after their gold and supplies, and while it would be a waste to let them be stolen, he’d rather lose all his fine garb than let his friends come to harm. “Can you stop the bleeding?”

Dedue’s figure seemed to crumple, but he nodded. “Show me your arm, Lord Gautier.” Sylvain winced but did as requested, Dedue already pulling out a set of bandages as he inspected the wound.

Dimitri left the two of them behind, snapping the spear into alert stance as he walked to the edge of camp. The shouts and jeers were closer now — no doubt they wanted to intimidate their would-be victims, or perhaps fool them into thinking their numbers were larger than they actually were.

His eye narrowed as he glared at the trees. _Rats, all of them. Crawling out, lured by the promise of treasure…_

All they would receive would be cold justice. 

“Defend the supplies, but most of all your own lives! Give them no mercy — show them what it means to challenge knights of Faerghus!” he roared. The answering roars were few compared to the host of bandits, but he smiled nonetheless. Felix rolled his eyes, but his posture did grow more alert, his blade flashing in the light of the fire. 

“Well, lookie here!” a ragged voice shouted as the first of the rats burst from the treeline. “A bunch of fancy nobles with some treasure! How about we take that off your hands!”

 _Breathe in._

His foot slid forward in the dirt as he shifted from alert stance to guard stance. Felix likewise took a defensive position as they waited for the charge.

_Breathe out._

“Oh, so we’re getting a fight, are we? Your funeral!” And with that, the lead bandit screamed as his men sprinted towards them, most of them heaving axes. 

Their mistake. 

In a flash of white, Ingrid dove down from the sky, a spear already buried in one of the thieves’ necks as she ascended back into the sky. Felix grunted as he easily deflected an axe, downing another in a swift strike. 

“Shit! Archers!” the lead bandit bellowed from the back, and Dimitri scowled. A coward, hiding behind his own men like the rat he truly was. Well, he would fix that. With a shout of his own, Dimitri charged into the closest cluster of bandits, thrusting his spear through one’s skull. The others’ shouts of alarm ran in his ears as Dimitri spun around, his fist colliding with another’s ribs so hard he could hear the cracking of bone. _Four down, sixteen—_

_Wait, the archers!_

He cursed as an arrow bounced off his pauldron, feathers brushing his cheek. He couldn’t tell where it had come from, but it didn’t matter — they were open targets in this clearing. He roared, forced to block an axe with his gauntlet; axes were dangerous against lances because they could chop through the haft easily. Gritting his teeth, he spun around once more, the butt of his spear colliding with someone’s arm. Another arrow shot into the dirt where his foot had been. With a quick glance to his right, Felix and Ingrid were in similar trouble — Felix surrounded by his own group of bandits, Ingrid unable to land as the other archers aimed at her pegasus. 

His own knights weren’t doing much better, the three of them forming a defensive triangle formation, backs all towards each other. None had fallen, but with the number of bandits…

_Let go. Show them what you truly are._

Hissing, he batted away another axe with his spear haft. _No._ He wouldn’t succumb. The last time had cost him an eye, and he wouldn’t let the rage get the better of him. Another strike, and only one bandit stood before him, axe trembling in his hands. 

“Get out there, you whelps!” the bandit leader screamed, and Dimitri’s heart stopped as another wave of bandits surged from the tree line, screaming and whooping like men possessed. _How…?_

“West flank, move in!”

The shout slowed the advancing wave to a crawl, and Dimitri whirled around as he heard the beating of hooves on the ground. _What now?_

New screams erupted from the bandits as a group of horses charged towards them, and Dimitri’s eye widened as he saw the banners streaming from the calvarymen’s spears: a silver dragon upon a white field, curled around a bright red crest. 

_The Knights of Seiros!_

“Oi, boar!” Felix’s shout brought Dimitri back to reality, and he grunted as he shoved the remaining bandit in front of him to the ground. He could feel Felix’s glare practically searing itself into his back, but he gave him a nod of thanks anyway. The swordsman simply returned his nod, turning to jump back into the frey.

 _“Shit!”_ Dimitri was getting _very_ tired of that bandit leader’s screeching. “How’d the fuck the Blade Breaker find us?!”

The Blade Breaker? The _captain_ of the Knights of Seiros?

“Form a perimeter around the camp!” One of the calvarymen brought his horse to a halt next to Dimitri, his orange tabard striking in the darkness. “You’re the leader of this group?”

“Yes,” Dimitri replied breathlessly. “And you are—”

“Jeralt,” the man replied curtly. Dimitri sucked in a sharp breath — _the captain himself._ “Any wounded? We’ve got healers.”

“One, arrow in the shoulder.” Dimitri gestured with his spear to where Sylvain and Dedue were, concealed by the large tree. “How did you find us, Sir Jeralt?”

“We’ve been tracking Kostas and his merry little band for a few days now,” Jeralt replied. “Your flier finally brought them back out into the open.” He chuckled as Dimitri sheepishly ducked his head. “Don’t worry about it, son. You did us a favor.”

“The debt is mine. We were about to be overrun,” Dimitri replied, turning back to the fray. “Allow us to assist you, Captain.”

“No problem by me.” Jeralt whistled, and Dimitri cocked his head as a foot soldier ran up, blade already drawn. “Stick with him, kid.” As Dimitri opened his mouth to protest, Jeralt smirked. “I insist. Wouldn’t want a nobleman from Faerghus to get gutted by some thief, hm?”

“...Very well.” Jeralt’s horse whinnied as he galloped away, taking down a bandit with a sweep of the spear. Dimitri wiped his forehead as he turned to the knight, trying to hold back a grimace; he hardly needed a babysitter on the battlefield. “We need to kill the leader. We’ll circle around, where he’s hiding in the back. He’ll be covered by archers—” Dimitri pointed towards the trees, “—hiding in the foliage.” 

“I’ll take care of the archers.” Dimitri blinked at the response; he hadn’t expected this knight to be a woman, but her voice made it clear. “How many, my lord?”

“Five,” Dimitri replied. “Perhaps more.”

The knight nodded, then gestured forward, obviously waiting for him to take the lead. Sucking in a deep breath, he snapped his spear back into alert stance and began to run, skirting around the combat zone as best he could. The knights were doing their work well — scattering the bandits apart, then taking them down one by one. Dimitri swallowed thickly at the work of death, then shook his head — these were monsters, trampling the weak and attacking the innocent. He should feel no guilt for them. 

Another axe blade flew at him, and he growled as he saw three bandits approaching, one of them with a sword. He lunged for that one, quickly parrying his hasty strike, then thrusting down to finish the job. Withdrawing his spear, he whirled around to counter the next strike, but one never came; instead, he saw the knight swiftly cutting the third man’s throat, the second already dead at her feet. His eyebrows rose; with that sort of speed, she could rival even Felix’s sword strokes.

“We’re almost to the tree line,” she said, continuing ahead of him. “Kostas is waiting.”

“Go on ahead!” he called out. “I’ll take care of him myself.” 

“Oh you will, will you?”

Gritting his teeth, Dimitri turned to see the bandit leader leering at him, hefting a small handaxe in one hand, a crude steel axe in the other. “You know, if you didn’t fight us, we were planning on taking you hostage! No need to spoil your pretty little faces. Then again, your face is already plenty spoiled!” He cackled roughly; Dimitri simply glared, unamused. “But you just _had_ to bring the Knights of _fucking_ Seiros on us. So now, you get to die where you’re standing!”

 _Not today._ Dimitri lunged forward, spear brought up to attack stance just as Kostas brought his arm back. Before he had the chance to throw the handaxe, Dimitri slipped past his steel axe, slicing the man’s arm. Kostas howled out a curse as he flailed around with his other hand, forcing Dimitri to retreat. “Bastard!” 

Pivoting in the dirt, Dimitri leaped at him for another strike, only to see a flash of metal flying straight at him. Reflexively he brought the haft of his spear up to block, then gasped as something tore at his side, a dull _crack_ ringing through the air. 

Blood dripped onto the grass as he looked down to see his spear haft shorn in two, the handaxe lying on the ground. His spear and armor should have deflected it, but when tossed at such close range— 

_Damn it!_ He tossed the broken shaft of his spear away, clinging to the foot remaining like a dagger. How in the world had Kostas managed to throw that handaxe so well? 

“Not so tough now, are you?” The man’s shriek of laughter rang in Dimitri’s ears. “Now _die!”_ Like a bolt loosed from a crossbow, he lunged towards him, and his eye widened at the bandit’s speed. He gritted his teeth, digging his knees into the ground as he braced himself for the inevitable strike. If he could just deflect his blow, perhaps he could avoid the worst of—

_Clang!_

Dimitri stared in shock as something smashed into the bandit’s head from the right — his blind side. Kostas only let out a groan before he slunk to the ground like a dropped sack of potatoes, the axe slipping out of his fingers. And next to his head, dented from the force of the throw, was a… helmet?

“Are you all right?” 

He whirled to his right, mouth gaping wide as he saw his savior: the knight Captain Jeralt had ordered to follow him. He’d known she was a woman by her voice before, but now that he saw her face, he stared speechless. The mint hair that framed her cheeks almost glowed in the firelight, restrained by simple twine, her large emerald eyes reflecting the flames. She had a soft face, but the blank hard expression on it was unmistakable: this was far from her maiden battle. 

“My lord?” she prompted, and he coughed, staggering to his feet — damn that axe blade! 

“I’m all right,” he dismissed, waving a free hand as he pressed his other to his side. “A simple scratch.” Swallowing, he turned back to the dented helmet on the ground. “You… You threw that?” 

“I lost my sword when I saw you,” she explained, making her way towards him. “And I didn’t have time to tackle him.” 

He nearly choked — this knight barely reached his shoulders, and she was planning to _tackle_ a brute like Kostas to the ground? Clearly, she possessed a strength that belied her size. “I-I see,” he stammered, his face suddenly warm as she approached. “My apologies. I did not mean to distract you.”

“The others are already taken care of. Kostas was the last one.” Her voice was eerily flat, no hint of annoyance or reassurance. No… hint of anything at all, really. “Your wound?”

“It’s fine,” he said instinctively. “Not deep.” Blood seeped past his fingers, but he hoped the dim light would hide that fact.

Unfortunately, those eyes of hers seemed to be just as keen as they were large. “You’ll soon lose consciousness if you don’t receive treatment,” she said quietly, and he stared in confusion as she lifted her right hand to her mouth. Yanking her glove off with her teeth, she pressed her bare hand to his own, right above the wound. “May I?” she asked, looking up at him.

All the breath seemed to leave his body, both at the contact and at her stare: flat though it was, her eyes seemed like deep pools of green, a forest spring that brimmed with life just beneath the surface. If he dove inside, what would he find? Would he get lost within the depths, or…

 _Stop that!_ Quickly, he cleared his throat, then let his hand slip from beneath hers, cringing at the flash of pain as her fingers found his wound. A fitting consequence for staring at her so unabashedly. 

Then, the knight’s hand glowed with a soft green hue, and he gasped as a warm tingling sensation spread across his torso. He stared, transfixed, as tendrils of light wove between the edges of the cut, like stitches sewing the flesh back together. Soon, there was no mark, not even a scar. The knight’s hand pulled away, and a wash of cold spread across his exposed skin. _A knight that knows faith magic?_ He’d never heard of such a thing before — most healers were priests, with a handful of warlocks who knew a few healing spells. Never a common warrior.

Clearly, this was no common warrior.

“Are there any more?” she asked, glancing him over. He found his cheeks burning at her keen examining stare, and he quickly shook his head. With a curt nod, she pulled her glove back on and turned to leave. 

“Wait!” The word burst from him before he could even think it over, and he cringed at how loud it was. Yet the knight turned, an eyebrow raised as she met his eyes once more. _So, she does show emotion._ Swallowing, he lowered his outstretched hand. “I would like to know the name of the knight who saved my life,” he said. 

She only stared at him for a long moment, her gazing piercing straight through him, and he had to keep himself from fidgeting. Was asking for a knight’s name forbidden? Did he slight her in some manner? Had he— 

“Byleth,” she said softly, inclining her head in a slight bow. Then without another word she turned and made her way back towards the camp, bending down to pick up a simple iron sword from the ground as she went.

 _Byleth._ He’d never heard of such a name before. Nor had he seen someone with such a shade of hair. And a knight that could perform _faith magic?_

 _Who_ is _she?_

“Hey, Dimitri!” Sylvain’s voice rang out over the chatter of the knights, and Dimitri looked up to see him waving at him, arrow gone from his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Coming!” Wincing at the broken spear on the ground, he simply left it where it was and headed over to the others, wrapping his cloak around himself. He found Byleth speaking quietly to Captain Jeralt, her voice inaudible. The captain did not look pleased, waving a hand at her head as he growled something back at her. 

Dimitri winced; clearly he needed to explain the situation — this knight had easily saved his life. Yet to challenge Jeralt the Blade Breaker… 

He wondered if fighting off a horde of bandits single-handedly would be easier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I hate writing fight scenes, I desperately wanted to put this twist into the work, so I did my best. I hope you enjoy! (I may come back to edit this later when my head isn't fit to burst). 
> 
> Hmm, why is Byleth chilling with the Knights of Seiros? Guess we'll have to wait for Dimitri to find out. :)


	3. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The closer that they arrive to Garreg Mach, the more uneasy Dimitri becomes - and it's not just because of the Lady Eisner. Sir Byleth is a mystery that perplexes him, and Sylvain is entirely too enamored with her.
> 
> And Captain Jeralt seems entirely too concerned about helmets.
> 
> CW: Mentions and discussion of racism.

Picking his way through the trampled tents and soldiers, Dimitri found Sylvain and Ingrid sitting side by side, a cleric healing one of her wounds. “You were very lucky,” the woman scolded, wiping away the excess blood with a cloth. “Honestly, the second there were archers, you should have landed. I’ve fished more than my fair share of arrows out of soldiers like you.”

“Aw, it’s not that bad,” Sylvain said, wagging his eyebrow at the cleric. “Besides, Ingrid’s a tough girl. Me? I’m downright sensitive. In fact, I think I stretched a muscle in my—”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid ground out wearily. “Enough.” Then, she stiffened. “Ah, Your Majesty!” Fumbling to stand, she groaned as the cleric pushed her back down.

“Stay still, dear — I’m almost done. Then you can go about your saluting and all that nonsense.” 

“It’s all right; I’d rather you kept off your feet,” Dimitri said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, we’re all right,” Ingrid dismissed, waving a hand even as the cleric pursed her lips. “As you can see, Sylvain is fine, complaining aside. After I’m finished here, I’ll be ready for another match.” 

Dimitri chuckled. “Your enthusiasm is extraordinary as always.”

“And don’t think you can weasel your way out of this one!”

Everyone, even the cleric, shuddered as they heard Captain Jeralt shout at the knight who had followed Dimitri. Amazingly she didn’t even look phased, simply standing at attention, hands pressed to her sides. 

“Yeesh. What’s got a fire under his a—” Sylvain grunted as Ingrid jabbed him in the side. “She was the knight that followed you, right?”

“Yes.” Steeling himself, Dimitri squared his shoulders and strode towards the captain, leaving Ingrid and Sylvain to stare after him. _This will not be a pleasant conversation._ As he drew near, the snatches of Jeralt’s reprimands grew clearer. 

“—face! And besides, helmets aren’t cheap! I can’t have one of my soldiers just wasting equipment like that!”

“If it’s the cost of equipment that concerns you, I can reimburse you in full,” Dimitri interrupted, standing before the pair.

When Jeralt fixed his glare on him, he suddenly felt as if he were a child again, about to be scolded for stealing sweets from the pantry. Dimitri stood firm, though, making eye contact with the captain. “This soldier saved my life, sir,” he continued, glancing at the woman with mint hair — _Byleth,_ he remembered. “I would not have her be reprimanded for such an act, even if she lost a helmet to do it.”

Jeralt actually blinked, turning to Byleth with a skeptical glance. “You took out Kostas with a helmet toss?” he asked incredulously. Byleth did nothing but nod, and Dimitri nearly jumped out of his skin as Jeralt _laughed,_ a great bellowing sound that seemed to jar his bones. “Oh kid, that’s _fantastic!_ Saints, I don’t think even Macuil could come up with something so harebrained.” With a hearty _thunk,_ Jeralt clapped Byleth on the shoulder, giving her a good shake that nearly took her off her feet. “Damn it, I can’t stay mad at you over something like that. A _helmet toss!”_ With another roar of laughter, he shook his head, and Dimitri stared in shock as he actually wiped his eyes. “Shit, that’s… Oh, that’s too good. Bastard’s probably rolling in his grave!” 

“Er, yes.” Dimitri coughed, then turned to Byleth. “I have very little to reward you with presently, but—”

“No reward is necessary,” she said quietly, inclining her head slightly in another bow. “I was simply doing my duty, my lord.”

“And tossing helmets is in your line of duty?” Felix asked. Dimitri whirled around to see him close by, a hand on his sheathed sword’s hilt. Grimacing, he gestured to Dimitri with a hand. “As much as I hate to say it, the boar’s probably right. Saving the king’s life should earn this _knight_ a reward.” He practically spat out the final word, a clear look of distaste on his face. Dimitri’s stomach curdled; Felix would of course disapprove. “Even if he nearly killed himself with his own stupidity.”

“The king?” Jeralt’s eyes narrowed, then went wide as his face paled. “Shit, you’re _King Blaiddyd?”_

“Yes.” Suddenly, Dimitri felt very, very weary. “We were traveling to Garreg Mach to celebrate the millennial festival when we were attacked, as you can see.” He waved to the remains of their camp — while nothing was stolen, a few tents had been trampled in the skirmish. Blessedly, there were no fatalities, although his honor guard had seen better days; one of the men was currently being treated by a monk, the others nursing their own wounds as they waited for healing. “If it were not for your arrival, this may have ended far differently.”

“Pardon the bluntness,” Jeralt said crossly, “but why the hell aren’t you traveling with a whole entourage? You should have at least double the men with you.”

“We presumed that once we passed the border at the Ohgma Mountains, we would only be safer the closer we arrived to the monastery,” Dimitri explained. “Bandits are more of an issue in Faerghus than here; with the presence of the Knights of Seiros close to Garreg Mach, we expected our journey to be, well…” He sighed as he looked at the surrounding wreckage. “Uneventful.”

“And you’d be right,” Jeralt sighed, leaning against his spear as he rubbed his forehead. “This is our fault, Your Majesty — we should have neutralized the threat long before you arrived. I’m sorry.”

“In the end there was no lasting harm done,” Dimitri protested, shaking his head. “Please, there is no need for apologies.”

“Kind of you to say, but we owe you one. We’ll escort you to Garreg Mach.” Jeralt patted Byleth’s shoulder. “We were heading there ourselves, once we took care of Kostas. We won’t be a proper royal retinue.” He smirked as he looked at Sylvain, and Dimitri did _not_ want to know what he saw. “But judging from your own, I don’t think you’ll mind.” 

“Not at all,” Dimitri replied gratefully. “We are once again in your debt.” He paused, then looked at the woman at Jeralt’s side. “Especially yours, Sir Byleth.”

For a long moment, she did nor said nothing. Then, almost hesitantly, a nod. 

“All right.” Jeralt sighed, then whistled sharply. “We’re camping here tonight, lads! Form a perimeter, then set up camp and help clean up. Jaskier, Triss, you’ll take first watch.” He paused, then glanced at Byleth. “You’re damn lucky you saved a king, kid, otherwise I’d still be tanning your hide. Now go help the others.” He stalked off, barking orders, and a lump rose in Dimitri’s throat as he saw Byleth move to do the same.

“Wait,” he said quickly, grasping her gauntlet. “I know it’s not my place, but if you’d like me to speak to Captain Jeralt on your behalf…”

“For what?” 

He blinked. “About the, um, the helmet. He seemed rather cross.” 

“Cross?” She paused, and Dimitri stared at in befuddlement; it was as if Jeralt had simply chided her like a mother would her child instead of giving her a dressing down that could rival Gustave’s. “I suppose he was.” 

“So, er, would you like me to…?” Dimitri trailed off as she stared at him with what looked suspiciously like _amusement,_ thought he could hardly tell in the darkness.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty.” She paused, then looked down at where his hand still grasped her forearm. “If I may be excused…”

“Oh! Of course.” He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, praying that the night would hide his flush of embarrassment as she bowed, then proceeded to aid with the cleanup efforts.

“If you hover over her any longer, Sylvain will notice.”

Dimitri flinched at Felix’s acerbic voice — to be honest, he’d completely forgotten that his friend was close by. “I simply wished to help,” he protested. 

“What, so you can pay back your life debt to her or something?” Felix sighed, leaning against a nearby tree. “You’ve gotten sloppy. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was worried for you out there. You usually fight better.”

Dimitri knew what Felix actually meant: _You usually fight more brutally._

“It’s been too long since I’ve been on a battlefield,” Dimitri said quietly. “Too long and yet never long enough.” 

Felix grunted in agreement, then glanced over to something behind Dimitri’s shoulder; he turned to see that he was looking at Byleth, currently helping some soldiers set up some tents. “She really caught your eye.” 

“She saved my life,” Dimitri pointed out. 

“Because you were sloppy. Still, why all the fuss about a helmet?” Felix mused, stroking his chin with a gloved finger.

To be frank, Dimitri had no idea. It seemed strange that Captain Jeralt would be so concerned about a simple piece of armor, and from what he’d seen of Byleth in battle, she hardly needed the extra protection. _So strange._

Felix suddenly sighed again. “Great. He spotted her.”

Dimitri resisted the urge to groan as he saw Sylvain making his way over to the knight, his hands laced behind his head in a relaxed manner as he sauntered towards her. Suddenly he wished for Sylvain to be on completely the opposite side of camp as Sir Byleth; she’d already been publicly reprimanded by her captain, and the last thing she needed was to put up with Sylvain’s antics.

“You’re proposing to Lady Eisner in three days,” Felix said suddenly, yanking him out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Just a reminder. You’re looking at her the way Sylvain looks at most women,” Felix said, pushing himself away from the tree and walking off. “Never thought I’d have to deal with _two_ of you.” 

“What— _Felix!”_

* * *

Dimitri assumed that after a few hours of ogling and gawking while they traveled, Sylvain would eventually lose interest in Sir Byleth. 

Dimitri, of course, was wrong. 

“I’m telling you, she’s got a _fine_ ass,” Sylvain whispered to Dimitri, though a Sylvain whisper was about as quiet as a hissing cat. “What the hell is a woman like her doing in the Knights of Seiros?”

Ingrid was currently with Felix, who was currently with Dedue, who was currently at the rear of the battalion helping to guard the supply wagon. This left Dimitri as the only sane man in a twenty foot radius. “A person’s body figure has nothing to do with their occupation,” he hissed. “And stop staring, Sylvain. Give her some respect.”

“Oh I respect her all right; anybody with an ass like that deserves my respect. Just look at it— ow!” Sylvain shook out his hand, shooting Dimitri a dirty look. “Hey, watch it! I don’t want you shattering my bones!”

Ah, right. Dimitri winced, pulling his hand back; while Ingrid and Felix certainly gave Sylvain his fair share of grief, they didn’t possess a minor Crest of Blaiddyd. “Still,” he said sternly, glaring at Sylvain. “You will not speak so disrespectfully about a knight. That is an order.” 

“All right, all right.” Sylvain sighed, tucking his hand underneath his other arm. “So, she really saved your life last night.”

“Yes.” 

“With a helmet?”

“We’ve been over this, Sylvain.” 

“I know, I know, it’s just… She really seems like your type of girl. You know, if you could have one.” 

Dimitri stared at him, unsure of whether or not to be indignant about that statement. “What in the world does that mean?”

“Well, I mean, she ticks all your boxes,” Sylvain said, shrugging his shoulders. “She’s drop dead gorgeous, but she can also fight. You said she was as fast as Felix?”

“Perhaps even faster, yes.” 

“She’d probably get you on the ground in ten seconds if you sparred each other. She’s about as opposite as those puffballs in Fhirdiad as you can get.” Though Dimitri didn’t exactly approve of calling women “puffballs”, he understood the sentiment. And Sylvain _was_ right. Most of the ladies in Fhirdiad were used to lives of luxury and high standing, concerned with the gossip and goings on of other nobles. They had a certain… artificiality about them that had nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with behavior.

Byleth, while certainly on the quiet side, was genuine. It was a refreshing difference. 

“Regardless,” Dimitri said, shaking his head, “I’m to marry Lady Eisner. There’s no point in considering otherwise.” 

“Shame,” Sylvain sighed. 

Then, Dimitri saw it.

The Look.

And instantly he began to panic.

“Sylvain, whatever you’re thinking, I _beg_ you, please do not do it,” Dimitri pleaded as Sylvain suddenly increased his pace, weaving around the knights walking on the path. “Sylvain!”

“Relax, Your Majesty,” Sylvain said, patting someone’s shoulder. “I’m just here to ask our friendly knight here some questions.” 

Dimitri paled as he looked down to see Byleth staring up at the two of them with her large emerald eyes, mint hair blowing in the wind. _This is not good._

“So,” Sylvain said, nudging Byleth’s shoulder with a wide-eyed grin. “You’re a Knight of Seiros.”

Dimitri’s eye twitched.

Byleth said nothing.

“Silent and stoic type, I getcha.” Dimitri could feel another headache coming on as Sylvain fell in stride with her, hands on his belt. “But you live at Garreg Mach, right?” At Byleth’s nod, Sylvain’s grin grew by three molars. “So you wouldn’t have happened to have seen the Lady Eisner by chance, would you?”

“Sylvain,” Dimitri warned, shooting him a look. “Don’t pester Sir Byleth.”

“Hey, I’m just doing reconnaissance for your sake, Your Majesty,” Sylvain countered, wagging a finger. “So, have you seen her?”

“Yes.” The word was so short Dimitri couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or not. As it were, her face revealed nothing.

“All right! What’s she look like? Is she as beautiful as the rumors say? What’s her—”

 _“Enough,_ Sylvain!” Dimitri snapped, grabbing Sylvain’s shoulder to pull him away. “It doesn’t matter—”

“I wouldn’t know.” 

The two of them both froze, turning to look at the soldier. Her eyes were distant, as if contemplating a long forgotten memory. “Lady Eisner rarely shows her face to the soldiers,” she continued. “Most of the time she’s with Archbishop Rhea to assist her in fulfilling her duties.”

 _Oh_. Sylvain made a noise of clear disappointment, and Dimitri sighed. _So much for “doing reconnaissance.”_

“She’s shorter than everyone thinks, though,” Byleth added, her lips turning up into the softest hint of a smile.

Sylvain actually chuckled, falling back into step with her, leaving Dimitri behind. “Shorter, eh? Well, that’ll be a bit difficult for His Majesty here,” he jabbed a thumb at Dimitri, “considering he grew like a weed.”

“Is this conversation merely to be at my expense?” he huffed, catching up to the both of them. 

“So, what is Lady Eisner like?” Sylvain continued, completely ignoring his complaint. Dimitri resisted the urge to sigh again, instead rubbing at his temples. He cared for Sylvain, he truly did, but sometimes he was just incorrigible.

 _A distraction from your true goal,_ a hauntingly familiar voice whispered.

Swallowing, he focused his thoughts on Sir Byleth, who currently had her knuckle raised to her lip in thought. It was a gesture he might be tempted to describe as cute, except that he’d seen her work on the battlefield first hand. “Like I said,” she began slowly, “I haven’t seen Lady Eisner often. I’ve only heard rumors.” She paused. “Why do you ask?”

Sylvain chuckled. “Well, as much as I’d like to be in His Majesty’s shoes,” and here he heartily slapped Dimitri’s shoulder, eliciting a grunt, “the plan is that he’ll propose to her at the Millennial Ball the day after tomorrow.” 

Dimitri flushed. “Sylvain, there’s no need to trouble Sir Byleth with such matters.” 

“Well, she asked, didn’t she?” Sylvain winked at her, and she simply stared blankly back; the lack of reaction nearly brought a chuckle to Dimitri despite his embarrassment. “Now, here’s the juicy part: His Majesty here has never even seen the Lady. So we’re walking into this totally blind.” He paused. “Well, not totally blind; you’ve told us she’s shorter than normal. Anything else you can tell us, Byleth?” 

“No.” Dimitri blinked at how curt the response was, all emotion wiped from her face. “I need to check on the supply wagon. Excuse me, Your Majesty, Lord Gautier.” And just like that she was gone, mint ponytail swaying as she moved to the back of the entourage. 

“Wow.” Sylvain rose an eyebrow as he looked at Dimitri. “Why’d you have to scare her off like that? I was doing you a favor, you know.”

“Oh, so _I’m_ the one who scared her off instead of you with your incessant questions?” Dimitri groused. “Really, Sylvain.”

“Okay, so maybe I pushed her a bit too much, but I was just asking!” he protested, raising his hands as if to ward off an attack. “I didn’t know she’d freak out.”

While Byleth’s actions hardly constituted a “freak out” in Dimitri’s opinion, a small part of him did find it unusual. Why _had_ Byleth suddenly decided to leave? It wasn’t the discussion of Lady Eisner; she’d been fine sharing what little information she knew. 

He turned back, staring as she marched by the supply wagon with several other knights. She did not speak with them, and they didn’t so much as look in her direction as they conversed with each other. It made her awkwardly stand out from the others, even if she still had a helmet. 

_She’s hiding something._

Reflexively he shook his head. Hide? What would a Knight of Seiros have to hide from anyone? 

* * *

Preparing the evening meal was one of Dedue’s favorite camp duties.

There was something calming about cooking, a familiarity that he could fall back to, even when the world around him changed far too fast. His mother’s voice still whispered in his ear, telling him which spices to add to a stock to bring out the flavor of the bones, how to cook the vegetables until they were perfectly tender. While other tasks required rigidity and precision, cooking allowed him to experiment, to tweak until he found the right flavor.

The Knights of Seiros had prepared their own meal, which they currently ate as a group. The rapidity with which they set up camp impressed him, but he could smell the stew they ate from clear across camp, and he knew that his own soup would be far more pleasing to his friends’ palates.

Well, except for Dimitri.

Despite his best efforts, none of his dishes had managed to evoke his sense of taste. Dimitri proclaimed a punishment for allowing the Tragedy of Duscur to happen, but Dedue suspected it had something to do with the scar that extended into his scalp from just behind his ear. Dimitri had never spoken about a head injury, but for the both of them, that day was a horrifying blur.

They both preferred to keep it that way. To remember everything in clarity would only invite unnecessary pain.

After tasting the broth from the back of the cooking spoon, Dedue smiled. “The soup is ready.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Lady Ingrid breathed, bowl already in hand as she raced towards the pot. “I’m starving.” Dedue made sure to give her an extra large helping, though he knew she would inevitably return for a second serving later. “Thank you, Dedue,” she said, closing her eyes as she inhaled the aroma with a large smile. “I’ve been craving your cooking for months. It might be the best thing about this trip.”

“I am happy it pleases you so,” he said softly. 

Lord Felix was next, proferring his bowl silently. Dedue was equally silent, though this was hardly a bad thing. Lord Felix did not thank him, but gave him a curt nod instead — his sign of gratitude. Dedue returned the nod.

“Smells good, Dedue,” Sylvain praised with a smile. “Seriously, how’d you learn to cook so well?”

“Many years of practice.” 

And finally, Dimitri. “Thank you as always, Dedue,” he said softly. “It smells delightful.” 

At least he could enjoy the scent. “If you’d like, I can add extra spices, Your Majesty,” Dedue offered. It wouldn’t be the same as if he possessed a full palate, but at least he’d be able to feel something besides the heat and texture. 

“I think I’ll pass this time, my friend,” Dimitri said with a smile. “Last time I think I went too overboard.”

Dedue couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory — Dimitri’s whole face had flushed red, his body drenched in sweat as he downed glass after glass of milk. “Perhaps it is for the best then.”

The four friends returned to their own area of camp, leaving Dedue to tend the cauldron of soup. It was not an unpleasant arrangement; while he enjoyed the others’ company, he enjoyed time to himself just as much.

It appeared tonight, however, that he was not to be alone.

He heard the crunching of leaves beneath light steps before he saw the flash of mint hair and green eyes — the knight that had saved Dimitri’s life. Sir Byleth. 

“May I help you?” he asked. “It may not suit your tastes, but you are welcome to enjoy the soup if you wish.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Dedue stared up at her, confusion turning to intrigue. After a while of simply staring at each other, Dedue turned back to the cauldron, ladling up his own portion.

“You are from Duscur,” the knight said quietly, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire. 

Dedue paused, soup dripping onto his gloves as he gripped the ladle tightly. It was rather easy to discern his heritage; he did not hide his features, and he wore the traditional braided patterns of his people proudly. Most did not comment on his race, unless they found fault with him for it. 

_Breathe. Remain calm._

“I am,” he stated, his voice level as he continued to ladle out the soup. 

“It is rare to see a Duscurian past the Sacred Forest.” The knight paused, then looked at the space on the log next to him. “May I sit?”

He looked at her for a moment, judging her intentions. Her face was difficult to read, despite how open and soft it appeared — her eyes yielded nothing. 

_She saved Dimitri’s life. That means something._

“You may,” he acquiesced, nodding to the vacant spot. Returning his nod with one of her own, Byleth sat down next to him. 

“I’ll have the soup, if it’s all right.”

He nodded, taking her bowl and ladling her a fair portion — enough that if she didn’t enjoy it, she could politely leave it unfinished. Silently she accepted the bowl he returned, stirring the soup with her spoon to cool it off. Dedue expected her to speak, yet she said nothing, simply staring at the fire. It was a tad awkward — he was used to being around Dimitri’s friends, who were rather… verbose. This knight, however, seemed to take after his own nature. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

After a minute, however, he heard the clinking of metal against wood, and he looked to see Byleth taking a sip, her eyes closed as if in concentration. Then: “It’s just as good as I remember.” 

Dedue blinked, glancing at the cauldron. Though the seasoning was muted — Faerghusian tongues were… unused to the quantity of spices in Duscur cuisine — this was a traditional soup his mother had taught him to make. He’d never tasted anything like it in Faerghus, not even at Garreg Mach with its varied dishes. “You’ve had this soup before?” he asked, raising at eyebrow as the knight continued to eat.

She nodded, swallowing another large spoonful.

“I was unaware that this recipe was known to the cooks at Garreg Mach.”

“It wasn’t at Garreg Mach.” She placed her soup bowl on her legs, balancing it between her knees as she stared at the fire. “Captain Jeralt and I were sent to Western Faerghus five years ago. The Bishop claimed he needed protection from angry mobs seeking his life.” She sighed. “It was a lie. There were no angry mobs, just hungry people. One of them was a family from Duscur.”

“I see.” Dedue turned to stare at the fire. “They invited you into their home?”

“Not at first. Their harvest had been stolen, and they had no money to hire mercenaries to get it back. We recovered it, and as thanks they fed us for the night.” She smiled faintly as she looked at the bowl. “This was my favorite.”

“It is mine as well,” Dedue admitted. “Though I would add more pepper.” 

“Do that and half the men would start crying,” Byleth replied. Dedue chuckled at the thought, then began to tuck into his own bowl. Sure enough, it was too bland for his tastes, and he sprinkled more of the spices from his pouch on top, blending it in. Then, he paused, glancing at Byleth. She still stared at the fire, her face impassive, yet also… sad. Melancholy? 

“Would you like some?” he asked, proffering her the spice bag.

“No, thank you.” She continued to eat, but that air of melancholy did not leave. 

Dedue hesitated, then asked, “Is something troubling you?”

Again, silence. Yet this time, he realized that she was thinking, perhaps of how to answer his question. Then: “Is it still the same? For people from Duscur?”

 _Ah._ He pondered a moment, unsure of how to answer. “Many still do not travel past the Sacred Forest,” he answered quietly. “The few who do often find the outside world to be a harsh and unforgiving place.”

“So why are you here?” the knight asked, turning to face him.

“I serve His Majesty,” Dedue replied automatically. “My place is at his side.” 

“I did not think the King of Faerghus would employ a man from Duscur.”

“Because of the Tragedy?”

Byleth simply nodded.

“His Majesty saved my life during the attack,” Dedue said quietly. “I will be forever in his debt for risking himself to save me, a stranger.” 

“I see.” Byleth’s face was softer now, returning her gaze to the fire. “I am sorry.” 

“What for?” Dedue raised an eyebrow at her.

“The world still hasn’t changed in six years.” Idly, she stirred the dregs of her soup, spoon clacking against the bowl. “It still treats those from Duscur unfairly.”

His eyes widened at her words. While most knew of the prejudice and hatred towards his people, very few would openly call it unjust. In spite of Dimitri’s best efforts to prove their innocence and provide protection, too many still blamed Duscur for the Tragedy. “That is not a widely shared opinion,” he finally said.

“When I saw that family five years ago, I knew.” Byleth hesitated, then handed Dedue the bowl. “Thank you. It was delicious.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He paused, then added, “Thank you for the conversation.” 

She blinked, as if his words confused him, then nodded. Dedue figured that she would leave presently, perhaps rejoin the other Knights of Seiros. Instead she stayed, green eyes reflecting the flickering flames. Dedue joined her in staring at the fire, enjoying the quiet corner of camp. 

When she finally bade him goodbye and turned in for the night, he found himself ruminating on their conversation long after she’d left. 

* * *

As they neared the majestic spires of Garreg Mach, Dimitri wasn’t sure how he felt.

The sight was truly beautiful — he’d forgotten just how impressive the monastery looked, and the rising sun bathed it in a soft glow that made the stones look like they were made of gold. “This brings back memories,” Sylvain said quietly, his manner subdued for once. The others nodded or hummed in agreement. Dimitri’s gaze fell to the ground as he thought back to the time they shared here.

For the first half of the year, he’d still been a grief-filled haze. The Tragedy had struck just a year before they’d enrolled at the Officer’s Academy. That Sylvain, Ingrid, Felix, and Dedue had attended with him had only been a small comfort at the time. If not for his uncle Rufus’s insistence that he attend, Dimitri wouldn’t have gone at all; learning the finer points of faith magic and the theory behind ballistas seemed useless when he could have used that time to search for the bastards who had caused the Tragedy and ripped his life apart. 

To be completely honest, he had been a terror to his professor — after his first term, he’d failed most of his classes except for lancework and horseback riding, and Professor Alois had pulled him into his office. Dimitri expected a reprimand or perhaps for the professor to tell him that he’d been expelled from the Academy.

Instead, Alois had poured him a stiff drink — Dimitri was fairly sure that giving students alcohol was forbidden, but neither of them had spoken about the incident — and asked him what was wrong. 

“I know right now, it seems like none of this has a point,” Alois had said back then, giving Dimitri one of his warm smiles. “But sometimes the lessons you need to learn aren’t just what I’m teaching you.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You and I both know that you have no talent for reason magic. So why am I still teaching it to you?”

After a shrug, Alois had laughed. “Reason magic sometimes isn’t about the magic part. It’s about the reason. Each lesson, no matter how strange it may seem, is shaping you, Your HIghness. So I want to give you a special assignment.” He leaned forward then, patting Dimitri’s shoulder. “Find the lesson _you_ need in what I’m teaching you. I want you to write them down. If you truly think your time at the academy is a waste, then I’ll talk to Seteth and we’ll send you back to Faerghus. But if you find even just one lesson worth learning, then you need to stay here. You’re not just here for yourself, you know. The kingdom is relying on you to use the knowledge you gain here to improve its future.”

From that day forward, Dimitri’s whole attitude towards the academy changed. It had shaped him from an angry, grief-filled student into someone who was desperate, eager to learn anything he could get his hands on. Alois had been right; it wasn’t just about him. It was about his people.

That was why he was here now. Garreg Mach had shaped him into a new man before, and if he was successful, it would shape him into a new man again. He clenched his hands into fists as they made their way up the narrow path to the monastery. Now, the pressure to succeed bore down on him harder than ever.

The Millennial Ball was tomorrow night.

“Are you well, Your Majesty?” Dedue asked, and Dimitri nearly jumped at the intrusion into his thoughts. 

“Ah, yes,” he lied easily. “I’m simply tired.”

“Did you not rest well last night?” Dedue asked, his eyes softening in concern. He could read between the lines far better than Dimitri could lie. 

“No,” Dimitri admitted. “Now that we’re here, everything seems far more real.” Tomorrow night he would finally meet Lady Eisner in the flesh. Excitement and dread mixed together into a mess of anxiety within him; tomorrow night, he would either succeed or fail. And unlike the battlefield, he had no natural affinity with words. The odds were against him. 

“No matter the result, Faerghus will stand with you, Your Majesty,” Dedue said quietly. “And your friends as well.”

Nothing could banish away his fear entirely, but Dimitri found himself standing taller. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

Approaching the gates to Garreg Mach’s township, he smiled as he saw the fluttering streamers and golden banners gleaming in the sunlight. In all the stress surrounding the proposal, he’d forgotten that he was attending a celebration. While Faerghusian holidays and festivals were hardly devoid of cheer, the bursts of color caught his eye, and he heard the excited chattering of the soldiers behind him grow in volume with each step. 

“Do you think that cafe’s still in business?” Sylvain asked. “They had the best pastries.”

“You won’t need to go to a cafe,” Ingrid said, anticipation clear in her voice. “Just imagine all the street vendors, all the stalls…” She sighed happily. “Saints, I can almost smell it already.”

“Forget the food.” Felix, however, smiled as he looked up at the large gates. “I hope they’ve got weapon vendors.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure this festival’s supposed to celebrate a thousand years of _peace,_ Felix,” Sylvain pointed out. “Selling weapons kind of defeats the point, wouldn’t it?”

“Regardless, I ask that you all take time to enjoy the festivities,” Dimitri said softly. “While you all may be here on my account, I won’t hinder your fun.”

“And what about you, Your Majesty?” Sylvain clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t act so glum about yourself. A king’s allowed to have fun too, you know?” 

“There will be plenty of time before and after the millennial ball to attend the festival,” Dedue added. “It would be remiss to let such an opportunity go to waste.”

“Dedue is right,” Ingrid agreed. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to spend time together. We should—”

A shadow fell over Dimitri, and reflexively he reached for his spear, only to grasp empty air. The group looked up to see a wyvern flying overhead. _Strange. Shouldn’t wyvern riders patrol in groups of three?_ To see a solitary wyvern set him on edge. _Something’s wrong._

With a powerful gust of wind, the wyvern landed only a stone’s throw away, and the rider dismounted quickly. That only added to Dimitri’s unease; the rider was no soldier but a man with blue robes, his verdant hair shining in the sun as he approached their party. Clopping hooves signaled Captain Jeralt’s approach. “Seteth? What are you doing outside of the monastery?” he asked tersely. 

“I bear an important message for—” This “Seteth” paused, shooting a glance at Dimitri’s party. Dimitri stood firm, though he clearly understood the look: this was not something meant for their ears.

Jeralt suddenly gave out a loud sigh, running a hand through his hair. “They’ve already seen her face,” he said quietly. “They’d find out tomorrow night anyway.”

“They’ve seen her _face?”_ Seteth hissed, and Dimitri flinched. _What in the world is going on here?_ “What happened, Jeralt? The life of the Lady Eisner is not to be taken lightly!”

Dimitri’s blood ran cold at those words. _What?_

“I’ll explain later,” Jeralt grumbled. “Or, well, _the Lady Eisner_ will.” He said the words with a mocking lilt, then suddenly whistled sharply twice in rapid succession. “Kid!”

_It can’t… It can’t be._

Yet to his utter disbelief, Byleth cut her way through the soldiers, mint hair streaming behind her as she stood at attention beside Jeralt’s horse. “Seteth. What is the message?” she asked quietly.

“Lady Rhea requires your immediate presence.” Seteth’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your helmet?” 

“Damaged in battle,” Byleth replied succinctly. Dimitri felt all the blood drain from his face as Seteth glowered at that answer. He barely heard the next few sentences, feeling as if he was in a daze.

“I will return with you to the monastery?”

“Yes. Come along.” And just like that, Byleth smartly saluted to Jeralt, then followed Seteth. The two mounted the wyvern, a loud screech splitting through the air as it took flight, soaring towards Garreg Mach. Speechlessly, Dimitri stared at the wyvern’s rapidly disappearing shape, then turned to look at Jeralt. 

The captain looked to be about two seconds away from bursting into a fit of laughter. Yet all he did was give him a tiny nod, as if to say _It’s true. She’s really the Lady Eisner._

“Well, _shit,”_ Felix oh so eloquently expressed. For once, Dimitri agreed with the sentiment, watching the woman he planned to marry fly off into the distance in bewildered silence. 

“So much for first impressions,” Sylvain said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Okay, I sincerely apologize for the long wait on this chapter. School started back up and I've been busy trying to get back into a schedule that balances writing with schoolwork. Someday I'll find the answer T.T
> 
> Anyway, this was a fun chapter that I really enjoyed writing - I wanted to show different facets of Byleth's personality, and so there's a lot of different scenes. My personal favorite is probably the scene with Dedue - I wanted to explore his heritage and how Byleth would react to the discrimination he and the rest of Duscur faces. That said, I'll admit that I've got very little experience in this area. If there's anything you would recommend I change due to uncomfortable implications or stereotyping, PLEASE let me know. It's a heavy topic, and I want to make sure I do justice by Dedue, and by proxy, to the reader.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Poor Dimitri's brain is absolutely fried. And now he's got to prepare for the millennial ball. What will he do...?


	4. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has finally arrived and though his friends have done their best to help, Dimitri still feels wholly unprepared for the Millennial Ball. 
> 
> He's also unprepared for all the familiar faces that await him.
> 
> CW: More racism (wow, people in Fodlan sure suck), alcohol

“Okay, okay,” Sylvain said, scribbling down something on yet another scrap of paper. “How’s this?” He leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat as he read what he’d just written. “‘Lady Eisner, I come to you now with the greatest of urgency. While others have undoubtedly sought your affections tonight, I seek yours for a greater purpose than a simple dalliance.’” He paused. “Good?”

“It’s rubbish,” Felix groused.

“You’ve said that about everything he’s written so far,” Ingrid retorted. Then, she sighed. “But I have to admit, it’s not the greatest.”

Dimitri couldn’t help but agree, bouncing his knee as he sat on the edge of the bed. Despite Felix’s annoyed glances, he couldn’t help himself; in just a few hours, the millennial ball would begin. 

And he’d already sabotaged his chances to gain the Lady Eisner — no, _Byleth’s_ — approval. 

“The other lords and ladies in attendance won’t be seeking Lady Eisner for a dalliance,” Ingrid pointed out. “They’re looking for political connections, chances to strengthen or make alliances, that sort of thing.” 

“You make him sound too desperate,” Felix added. 

“Well, we have to make Dimitri stand out _somehow.”_ Sylvain sighed. “I mean, besides Lady Eisner saving his life with a helmet.”

“Perhaps writing a speech is a counterintuitive exercise,” Dedue offered. 

“I’d normally agree,” Dimitri admitted. “But in this case…” He groaned, rubbing at his temples. “Is it even worth attempting at this point?”

“Of course it is, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said softly. “We’ve come all this way; the least we can do is try.” 

Dimitri nodded bitterly, shamed by his cowardice. He had dragged his friends all the way to Garreg Mach; he couldn’t simply give up now and run away, no matter how poor the odds seemed. 

“We’ve got you,” Sylvain said, winking at him. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We may have set ourselves back—”

“‘We’? You mean ‘you’,” Felix said.

“—but we’re gonna give you the best second first impression we can. That’s a Gautier promise.” 

Dimitri smiled weakly. “Thank you, Sylvain.” 

“Now, give me a second,” Sylvain said, turning back to the small desk wedged in the corner of the room. The inn they were currently staying at was a cozy place in one of the wealthier districts in town; Sylvain had recommended the establishment as one of the best. Dimitri tried not to think too hard about how Sylvain exactly knew that, but he had to agree; while small, it had a nice homely feel without sacrificing comfort. 

“Okay, draft seven.” Yet before Sylvain could read it out loud, Felix snatched it from his grip. “Hey!”

“Whenever you read it it sounds fake,” Felix replied as if he were stating something obvious. His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes darted back and forth across the scrap of paper. Then they shot up to nearly his hairline. “‘ _Voluptuous and sumptuous curves?’”_

“Cadence and rhyme are vital aspects of poetry,” Sylvain defended sharply. 

“No,” Dimitri said quickly, his cheeks burning. “I’m not telling her that.” 

“Actually,” Ingrid said, leaning over Felix’s shoulder. “Aside from that crass remark, it seems… rather elegant.” She took the paper from his fingers, then began to read. “‘Lady Eisner, I must admit that our meeting was unorthodox in a number of ways. Your hair shining in the firelight, your’—” She suddenly coughed, and Dimitri’s face burned as her eyes traveled down a fair chunk of the paper. “‘Yet I see this as a boon instead of a hindrance. Just as our meeting is undoubtedly different than most of the nobility that have graced your presence, my proposal is just as different. I come to you not as a king seeking for power or fortune, but a man…’” She paused.

“And?” Dimitri asked, on edge. “‘A man’…?”

“That’s, um, that’s it,” she said lamely. 

“You gave me what, a minute tops?” Sylvain complained, taking the paper. “Okay, so we’ll scratch out the compliments — which takes all of the poetical artistry out of it, but since _no one_ here cares about _art,_ fine.” He turned to Dimitri. “What do you think, Your Majesty?” 

“It’s a good start,” he agreed. “But you all don’t need to be here. Go out and enjoy the festival.” 

“We’ve visited all the stalls already,” Ingrid pointed out sheepishly. 

“And Ingrid’s probably bankrupted both our houses with all the food she’s eaten,” Felix added. “Either way, we’ve got nothing better to do until the ball starts.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Keep it going, Sylvain.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working here.” 

Warmth filled Dimitri’s heart as he looked at each of his friends. “Thank you, all of you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Actually… I kind of do,” Sylvain said quietly. “I blew it, okay?” Gently, he placed the quill down, then turned to face Dimitri. “I know I pushed Lady Eisner too hard before. So we’re gonna make this work. Really.” He smiled faintly. “Gautier promise, right?”

“You gave me a Gautier promise five years ago that you’d stop flirting,” Ingrid said dryly.

“Hey, I’m a different man now!”

“Are you really?”

“You wound me, Felix! Of course I’m a different man, I—”

“Get back to work, Sylvain.”

Dimitri chuckled. _Such a lively bunch. And yet…_

_They truly are my greatest allies in the world._

* * *

“I wish you could come with us, Dedue,” Dimitri said as they stood outside the entrance to Garreg Mach. The marketplace he’d known five years ago was gone, replaced with garlands of flowers and lanterns that illuminated the path to the main hall. 

“Do not worry, Your Majesty,” Dedue replied, his face neutral. “I simply wish that you enjoy yourself at the ball.”

“Enjoy” would be a bit of a strong word. Dimitri was currently struggling not to sweat through his clothes, and his head still ached from where Felix had ruthlessly tugged his hair back into a makeshift ponytail. “You look like a beast with it down,” he’d offered as explanation, though Dimitri wasn’t sure the end result wasn’t much better with half of his hair hanging over his eyes. _At least it’s the eyepatch side._

His clothes were much finer than he was used to: a formal black tunic richly embroidered with golden thread, with stiff black trousers that neatly tucked into polished leather boots. His fur trimmed cape completed the ensemble, also heavily embellished with gold. Despite all the thick and heavy finery, he felt exposed without wearing some form of armor — his hands felt the most naked of all, only covered with thin white gloves. Still, despite feeling as natural as a fish on dry land, he had to admit that he looked impressive when he’d given himself a glance in the mirror. 

_Second first impressions._

“I will endeavour to do my best,” Dimitri said, giving his friend a weak smile. “In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy yourself as well. I’m sure the festivities tonight will be grand.” In truth, he’d much rather be out in the streets, becoming one with the crowd as he watched displays of magic or skilled craftsmanship — he’d been to very few festivals as a child. “You’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

“I will record all my findings for you and give you a detailed report when you return,” Dedue replied, so seriously that Dimitri nearly missed the joking twinkle in his eye. A bit of the stress evaporated off his shoulders. “Remember,” Dedue said, “I do not believe your cause is as hopeless as it may seem.”

“Right.” Dimitri reached down into his pocket, feeling the folded piece of paper crumple between his fingers. Sylvain truly had come through in the end, writing him a speech that he swore up and down would have the Lady Eisner — well, _Byleth_ — falling at his feet. Despite his skepticism towards such an event, Ingrid had reassured him that it was a good speech, and even Felix had begrudgingly expressed his approval. He’d memorized the entire thing, yet kept the paper with him as some sort of talisman, or perhaps a good luck charm. “Still, wish me luck?”

“Good luck, Your Majesty,” Dedue said, clasping his forearm. “May the goddess of Fódlan smile upon you.” 

“Thank you,” he whispered, watching as Dedue left, stepping to the side of the nobles who were waiting in line to be admitted. Some shot the man wary glances and Dimitri glared as a few of them even reached for their valuables, hiding them in their hands or tucking them into pockets or folds of clothing. 

It was a stark reminder he needed: this proposal wasn’t for him. This was for Faerghus, for Duscur, and for those he was sworn to protect. 

“It’s time, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said as they arrived at the main entrance. Dimitri nodded, staring at the vaulted ceilings and shining tapestries of the monastery as they moved from the main hall to the ball area. It felt so strange, being back in this place — he half felt as if he were five years younger, an angrier and bitter boy who saw no purpose in staying at the academy. The other half of him just felt old, and the side of his vision that was forever dark reminded him just how much had changed. 

Taking in a bracing breath, Dimitri watched Ingrid hand a servant their name card, then waited to be announced. “The Lady Ingrid Brandl Galatea, of House Galatea!” Ingrid curtseyed, the motion a tad awkward in her pale mint gown, then respectfully moved to the side as Dimitri took his place in the center of the doorway to the ballroom. “Announcing His Majesty, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus!”

A slight hush fell over the ballroom, and Dimitri uncomfortably watched as most attendees turned their attention to him. Yet he ignored them all, searching through the crowd to find…

Her.

At the head of the ballroom, standing on a raised dais surrounded by pale golden tapestries and trailing garlands of flowers, stood the Archbishop, Lady Rhea. Verdant hair fell down over her white and navy robes, crowned with a golden headdress framed with white lilies. She would have appeared the perfect picture of divinity, if not for the woman standing at her side.

Somehow, in spite the simplicity of her ensemble compared to the Archbishop, Byleth seemed to radiate a light that had nothing to do with the chandeliers above or the torches along the walls. A golden emblem trailed down the front of her dress, her shoulders bare. She wore no adornment on her head, no jewels, and there was no rich embroidery. Her mint hair flowed down past her shoulders, instantly recognizable.

Yet it was as if she was a completely different person to the knight who had saved his life in the forest just mere days ago. 

“So, done enough staring, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri’s face burned at Sylvain’s gentle prompt, and he quickly moved to the side of the ballroom so that other guests could enter; at least his station prevented people from vocally complaining about his lapse. A large banquet table held an assortment of sweet and savory treats, and with a smile he saw Ingrid already tucking into a plate. Felix was doing much the same, though he had the suspicion that it was less from hunger and much more as a way to prevent any social interaction. 

“Remember, you got this in the bag,” Sylvain whispered, shooting him his classic flashy grin. “Second first impressions.” 

“Right.” Dimitri took a heavy breath. “About how long should I wait, do you reckon?” They had all agreed that if Dimitri approached the Lady Eisner too early in the evening his petition would be forgotten amongst the dozens of others. 

“Well, they’ve already got the liquor going,” Sylvain noted, rubbing his chin. “I’d say give it an hour or two. That’ll get rid of most of the drunk ones, and if you wait too much more than that, she’ll probably get cranky or something.” 

The thought of Byleth being _cranky_ was all too terrifying for Dimitri to not agree. 

“So enjoy yourself in the meantime,” Sylvain said, slapping his shoulder with a wide grin. “Talk to some girls, have a few dances—”

“I don’t think that would help his case much, Sylvain,” Ingrid noted, popping another hand pie into her mouth. “Though you really should try this food, Your Majesty — it’s delicious.” 

It certainly smelled delightful, but Dimitri’s stomach felt like it was filled with a swarm of bees. “I’ll have to sample it later,” he deflected. “I’m sure—”

“Your Majesty!” 

The four of them turned to see someone with bright red hair pressing through the crowd, trying her best to make her way towards him. Unfortunately just as she was passing behind two lords, one of them flung his hand back as he laughed, and Dimitri paled as with a squawk the young lady toppled to the floor.

Only to be caught by Felix snatching her arm and hauling her to her feet. 

“Careful,” he snapped, yet his words didn’t have nearly as much bite as Dimitri was used to. The young lady flushed so brightly her cheeks matched her hair as she pulled her arm out of his grasp.

“Thank you,” she huffed. “Anyway, Your Majesty! It’s so good to see you here!”

Dimitri paused. “I apologize, but have we met before?”

The lady flushed again. “Oh, right, I got ahead of myself. I’m Annette Dominic, of House Dominic. We attended—”

“— the Blue Lions class together.” Dimitri smiled — now he recognized her, though her new hairstyle had thrown him for a loop. In their academy days, she’d twisted and braided her hair into intricate knots and curls that reminded him of pastries in a bakery; here her hair fell straight to just past her shoulders. “My apologies for forgetting, Lady Dominic.”

“Oh, not a problem,” she said quickly, waving her hand. “It’s been five years after all. But it feels like a small class reunion!”

Dimitri’s smile widened: she was right. With him, Annette, and all three of his childhood friends, their class was almost complete. They were only missing Dedue and several others. “It certainly does. Tell me, what have you been doing in the meantime?”

“Ah, well, after the academy I returned home to Fhirdiad,” she explained. “I used to attend the School of Sorcery, and they asked if I could join their staff as an adjunct professor.”

“Now that’s impressive,” Sylvain said, smiling brightly at the lady; Dimitri had to hold back a sigh as he leaned in towards her, clearly entering into his flirting routine. “And straight after you graduated from Garreg Mach? You’ve sure got a sharp mind there.” 

“Yes, well, I’m still just an adjunct professor,” Annette noted with a slight pinkening of her cheeks. “And I didn’t exactly want to leave Garreg Mach, but…”

“Why? You graduated, didn’t you?” Felix asked. 

“Yes, but I’ve always wanted to teach, and Garreg Mach is the most renowned school in all of Fódlan,” Annette said quietly. “And my father…” 

Dimitri frowned. “Has something happened to Gustave?” Shortly after the Tragedy, his trainer had left the service of the Kingdom, claiming that he was unfit to aid the royal family after what happened in Duscur. Dimitri had protested the decision, but his uncle had let him go without a second thought. The last that he’d heard of Gustave was that he’d returned home to his family. “Is he ill?”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Majesty.” Annette’s gaze lowered to the floor. “I haven’t seen him in seven years.” 

_What?_ He stared speechless as Annette fidgeted with her hands. “I… I believed he returned home to House Dominic,” he finally managed.

“He sent us a letter telling us that he hadn’t atoned for his sins, and that he couldn’t shame our family with his presence,” she explained, and Dimitri did not miss the clear scowl on Felix’s face at the words. “When I attended the Academy, I saw a few glimpses of him. Apparently he’s joined the Knights of Seiros and calls himself Gilbert.”

“So he’s so much of a coward he can’t even use his own name,” Felix ground out. “Despicable.”

“Felix!” Ingrid chided. “Please, forgive my friend, he—”

“No, it’s all right,” Annette said, though her voice was subdued. “I remember Lord Fraldarius’s temperament from back in the academy.” Sylvain looked like he was about to laugh at that, but a glare from Ingrid silenced him. 

“So you wish to work at Garreg Mach to find your father.” Dimitri closed his eye. “I am sorry, Annette. I should have insisted Gustave remain in Faerghus’s service, but—”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, Your Majesty!” Annette interrupted quickly, furiously shaking her head. “My father made his choice that day, but once I’ve gotten tenure at the School of Sorcery and apply to be a professor at Garreg Mach, I’m sure I’ll run into him again. Then I can talk to him and convince him to come home.” Her eyes shone with determination, and Dimitri smiled as the bright and bubbly Annette he remembered returned in full force. “I won’t let my mother down this time!”

“Then I wish you all the success in the world,” Dimitri said. “If you’d like, I could send the School of Sorcery a letter…”

“Oh no!” Annette once again shook her head, amber waves flying around her face. “I couldn’t ask you to do such a thing! Besides, I’ve been working hard. I’ll be sure to get to Garreg Mach in no time!” She pumped her fists excitedly, and for a moment it felt like he was five years younger, with two eyes and a starchy uniform instead of an all-too-thin dress suit. 

He didn’t miss the way Felix stared at her either.

“Well look at you,” Sylvain said, thought he’d relaxed from his stilted flirtatious pose. “With that attitude, maybe you could get Felix the Grouch to smile.” Dimitri had to hold back a chuckle as Felix scowled immediately.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, didn’t your mom ever tell you not to swear in front of a lady?” 

“Both of you, knock it off! Lady Dominic, I’m so sorry for their behavior, these blockheads—”

“Oh no, it’s completely fine! And you can call me Annette, Lady Galatea.”

“Ingrid.”

Dimitri half expected Annette to introduce herself to Dedue before he remembered that he wasn’t here with a nervous twist of the stomach. _I hope he’s enjoying the festival._

“Your Majesty?”

He turned to see a small woman in a pink taffeta dress curtsey before him. “Could I claim the honor of a dance?” she asked demurely.

Ah. Dancing.

He could hardly refuse her, and so he led her onto the main dance floor. The orchestra began a slow waltz, and he found himself rehearsing the steps in his mind as the dance began. Though he’d hosted several balls in Fhirdiad he’d spent most of them conversing politics instead of dancing, and they were dreary meagre affairs compared to the splendor here. “Forgive me, Lady Clarine,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I’m afraid I’m terribly out of practice when it comes to dancing.”

She politely laughed, and for the first few moments he found himself glancing down to make sure that he wouldn’t step on her feet — even with the lightness of his boots compared the greaves he usually wore, he wouldn’t put it past his crest to suddenly break her toes.

Thankfully the dance passed without incident, and she curtseyed once more before bidding him a good evening. He sighed, trying to find a way to blot the sweat off his face without making it too obvious, when he was approached by another young lady. From her fashionable and brightly colored clothes he guessed she was from the Alliance, which she confirmed when she introduced her name and that she was from house Goneril. 

“I’ll be real with you,” she said when they began the waltz. “Dancing is fun but it wears me out.” 

He raised an eyebrow at the candid statement. “I… see?” 

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here with you then, huh?” With a jerk of her head, she nodded over to a darker corner of the ballroom, where several nobles chatted. “Claude asked me to chat you up.”

 _Claude?_ He could only think of one Claude. “As in Claude von Riegan, leader of the Leicester Alliance?” he asked, dumbstruck. Was this some sort of test? 

She laughed, a tinkling sound that did very little to put him at ease. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s just multitasking. You know, talking to nobles on his own, using me to find out what you’re up to…” She sighed as he guided her into a twirl. “It’s a lot of work.” 

Honestly, he had no idea what to say. How was he supposed to respond to something like that?

“Ugh, do you really have to make me ask?” she said. 

“Ask?” This conversation was so confusing he wondered if he’d accidentally drunk a flute or two of champagne already. 

“What you’re up to. Why you’re here. If you’re gonna propose to Lady Eisner.” She batted her eyelashes. “Tell me, pretty please?”

This was probably the most bewildering grab for information he’d ever heard. “That is my intention, yes,” he said, sidestepping another dancing couple. 

“Great.”

“And what if I was lying to you just now?” he asked.

Lady Goneril shrugged. “You don’t look like the lying sort to me. And Claude says that sometimes you can find out what the enemy is thinking more from their lies than their truths.” She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t get it, but at least you made my job easier.” 

“You’re welcome?” The song drew to a close, and the Lady Goneril gave him a simple curtsey.

“Thanks for the dance, Your Majesty. Oh, and the juicy info.” She winked at him. “Bye.”

“Good...bye?” Before he could finish, she was already gone, heading back to the group that she’d motioned to earlier, pink pigtails swaying. Once she’d entered the shadowy nook she bounded up to a man in a brilliant yellow ensemble, his dark hair combed back elegantly. Strangely, he wore a lock of it in a curious braid with beads, and Dimitri cocked his head at the display.

Then froze as the man turned away from Lady Goneril whispering in his ear and winked directly at him. For some reason his cheeks burned at the gesture, and even worse the man _laughed,_ turning to whisper something to the Lady Goneril. 

_He knows you don’t stand a chance._

_You really think this will help your people? Dancing and twittering about nothing?_

_Why are you even here?_

“For much the same reason you are, I believe.” 

His eyes widened as he heard that voice. _It can’t be…_ Yet it made perfect sense. After all, this was supposed to be a celebration for _all_ three countries.

When he turned around and looked down, he met gazes with Empress Edelgard von Hresvelg of the Adrestrian Empire. Or as he knew her:

“El!” She smiled at the nickname from their childhood, and though her jubilation was much more restrained than Dimitri’s she graciously accepted his hug with a delicate pat on the back. 

“It’s good to see you as well, Dimitri,” she said. Her crimson ball gown trimmed with gold brought out the slight red tint of her chestnut locks, her golden crown sitting heavily on her brow. “My, how you’ve grown. I fear my neck will ache just looking at you.” 

He laughed, perhaps for the first time in weeks, at that. “I’m afraid time has passed us both by. Though you look well.” His stomach churned as something dark came over her eyes, her gaze suddenly losing much of his warmth. _“Are_ you well?” he asked. 

“Perhaps we should take this conversation off the dance floor?” she suggested. He gratefully agreed, quickly moving to an alcove some distance away. The cool night air blew through the large doorway, giving him some relief from the stuffy heat of the ball room; he resisted the urge to tug at his collar to air out his chest. Edelgard waited for a moment, then asked, “How are things in the Kingdom?”

It was a loaded question and they both knew it. But El had always been this way; never one to turn away from the hard, uneasy facts of life. “Things are much the same, though we have been making some progress with establishing safer roads.” It was very little to celebrate, but any improvement meant something. Edelgard nodded, her lavender eyes glinting as she stared out at the courtyard; torches and lamps burned against the walls, allowing couples who desired more privacy enough light to navigate their surroundings. “And the Empire?” Dimitri asked. "How is your sister?" He'd never met Annaliese, but as the last surviving member of El's blood family, he knew the sisters were close.

“She's doing well, and has taken very well to her role of nagging me to find a spouse." They both laughed, Edelgard rolling her eyes. "But yes, she's well. As for the Empire, it is much more stable now that the Insurrection of the Seven is merely a footnote in the history books."

Dimitri pressed his lips together. The Insurrection of the Seven was just as controversial as it was famous, and Edelgard's reaction to it even more so. He’d heard of her overturn of the nobles’s grab for power, and it had not been nearly as peaceful as Edelgard made it seem. While he knew that the Insurrection had cost Edelgard’s father Ionius much of his power, he wondered if that truly wasn’t so bad of a thing. Giving one man that much power was not wise, in his experience — his uncle’s mismanagement of the kingdom during his Academy days was solid proof of that in his mind. 

Yet it had been Edelgard’s dream to create an Adrestria united under a single emperor once more, a dream she'd spoken about even when they were children. And Adrestria was stronger than ever, its economy beginning to flourish once more. The cost for such a bright future had been paid in blood, but that did very little to dim its attractiveness to some. The fact that she wore a crown and he did not reflected the wealth of their countries painfully well.

“Allow me to apologize,” he said quietly, nodding to said crown. “I forgot myself in our reunion. Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty.” While Dimitri had been crowned shortly after returning from the Officer’s Academy, Edelgard had waited for two years until her father had passed on before assuming the role of Emperor.

Dimitri had not been able to attend her coronation; he’d been recovering from the wound he’d suffered trying to deescalate a rebellion. It had seemed heartless to just simply send her a formally worded letter of congratulations. 

“There’s no need to be so formal with me, Dimitri,” Edelgard replied with a teasing smile. “Though I must congratulate you as well. Faerghus will do well in your care.” 

_Will it?_

“I’m not surprised you are here,” Edelgard said, and he raised an eyebrow as she snatched a flute of wine from the tray of a passing server. “It seems that there are many in the market for a wife these days.”

“And you?” he asked, half jokingly.

When he saw the dark glint in her eyes, all mirth left him. “While the Church of Seiros has fallen out of power in Adrestria, the blessing of its Archbishop is not something to be taken lightly,” she said quietly, swirling the wine in her flute. “You have no doubt surmised the same.” 

“I have.” _Though I wish I did not need it._

“Then you understand that I am steadfast in my resolve.” She took a small sip. “I will not let anyone stand in my way of this alliance. Not even you, my dear friend.” 

He didn’t doubt it. Edelgard always accomplished what she desired, both at the Academy and in the Empire. “Then I suppose we are once again on opposing sides,” he murmured. As house leaders of the Blue Lions and Black Eagles, they had often clashed on mock battlefields. He was grateful that they’d never had to cross true blades, yet this didn’t feel any better.

Especially since Edelgard had a far higher chance of success than he. 

“Ah, forgive me,” Edelgard said, her cheeks pinkening as she looked up at him. “I should not let such feelings cloud our time. We're family, after all. Tell me, how is—”

“Your Majesty?”

Dimitri paused, turning from Edelgard to see a man in deep blue robes standing at attention. His eye widened in recognition: this was the same official who had taken Byleth to Garreg Mach yesterday morning when his party and the Knights of Seiros had arrived. Seth? Was that his name?

“I have been told that you have expressed a desire to speak with the Lady Eisner in private,” he said, his voice as neat and formal as his clothes. “She will see you now.” 

Dimitri’s heart flipped in his chest. “N-Now?” he asked, reluctantly turning to Edelgard; he cringed as he saw the look of disapproval on her face. 

“If you would like to decline her offer, I can pass the message along,” the advisor said, his face sour. 

“No, no!” Goddess he felt as if he’d completed one of Gustave’s training regimens, his heart was racing so fast. _This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon!_ “Please, just allow me a moment — I’m so sorry,” he said, turning back to Edelgard. “Just as we were catching up…” 

“I will hardly hold you back from such an opportunity, Dimitri,” she said, though he did not miss the flash of cold envy in her eyes. “We can socialize and reminisce later.” 

“Yes, but—”

“The Lady has a rather tight itinerary this evening,” Seth said pointedly. “I would not delay her for much longer.”

Dimitri closed his eye, taking in a deep breath as he nodded. “If you will excuse me?” he asked, bowing to Edelgard, hand pressed to his breast. Her only response was a nod; coming from Edelgard that was downright encouraging. 

Encouraging him to run out of the monastery and throw himself in the well, that is.

“We have very little time to delay,” Seth said, Dimitri nodding as he followed the man through the ballroom, sticking to the sides to avoid the clusters and dancing couples. He caught a glimpse of Sylvain dancing with a pretty young girl in red, while Felix and Ingrid were still at the buffet table. None of them noticed him; he was conflicted on whether he wanted them to or not. 

Passing through a courtyard, the two men went up a flight of stairs to the second level of the monastery — Dimitri vaguely remembered coming here to give class reports for the month to the academy’s advisor and the archbishop. Yet instead of entering the audience chamber, they continued up another flight of stairs. Dimitri stared in confusion as they came to an area that looked fairly similar to the dormitories he stayed in as a student. Why would Seth take him to a living area? Was this some sort of test of his virtue? He flushed as they continued down the hallway to an open set of doors leading out to a starlit terrace. 

The place looked serene, with several ponds and streams inlaid in the stone. Even in the cold of early spring, flowers bloomed on the water’s surface. It was a rather beautiful display. 

It was nothing compared to the woman who waited for him.

“I will take my leave, Your Grace,” Seth said suddenly, and all too quickly the doors closed behind the advisor, leaving Dimitri alone. Well, not alone. 

But he certainly felt alone. 

“Your Grace,” he said, trying to muster what frail confidence he could. Slowly, carefully, he bowed.

“Your Majesty,” Byleth replied quietly. “Please join me. We have something to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right all right, I'm a terrible person I know, it takes me nearly a month to update and when I do I leave y'all on a horrible cliffhanger. (Also wow, Byleth barely shows up in this chapter at all, whoops)
> 
> Well, first off, rest assured that I am NOT letting this story die; I have a bunch of fun plans for the future. Alas, darn education keeps on getting in the way (still trying to find that balance lol) but I'm not leaving this fic to rot anytime soon. 
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I decided to leave Dimitri's proposal for the next chapter because I wanted it to stand all on its own; as it is this chapter is already quite long and we've introduced Annette, Claude and Hilda, AND Edelgard all within the span of a few pages, so adding the proposal would have just made it even more long and taken even longer. Hopefully this way the pacing stays afloat. 
> 
> Edelgard is hard to write because I've only played a few chapters of CF (rip, gotta get on that) but it was actually kind of fun to balance her haughty and cold demeanor with her fondness for Dimitri, who she remembers very well in this AU. Hopefully I got her right. 
> 
> Enjoy!


	5. The Moment of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart hammers. His breath quickens. So much of him wants to run, but this is the moment he has been working towards for so long.
> 
> He prays it will not be in vain.
> 
> CW: panic attack, dark intrusive thoughts, swearing, alcohol

Though it was only a few feet, the distance between Dimitri and Byleth seemed to stretch out for eternity.

She truly looked breathtaking. The moonlight gave her hair a silvery cast, her white gown shimmering as the gentle breeze played with her skirt. The dress itself was simple: no lace or embroidery that he could see, only a simple tabard of gold that fastened at the neck to a large emblem. Her bare shoulders and cheeks took on a rosy look, most likely from the chill of winter still stubbornly clinging to spring.

“Join me?” she said, gesturing to a spot next to her on the balcony. 

Swallowing down his fear, he nodded.

The only sound was the breeze rustling through plants and the gentle trickle of water as he took his place at her side — to his surprise he heard nothing of the ball below. The balcony overlooked a bridge leading to the monastery’s main cathedral; he smiled as he remembered the weekly treks for service across that bridge, Ingrid dragging Sylvain out of his dorm room by his ear. His own faith in the goddess was… well, he knew she existed. But aside from that? She seemed to have no love for him or her holy kingdom. He displayed the token signs of faith — attending service, donating to the Church when the coffers could spare a few coins — but on the inside he didn’t think about it too much.

The dead would not allow him the luxury of thinking for himself. 

“Your Majesty?”

He cringed, turning away from the balcony’s view. “I apologize. I find myself lost in thoughts often.” He straightened up, nervously tugging on the hem of his tunic to get rid of any wrinkles. “It is a lovely view.”

“It is.” She did not smile, nor frown. Byleth somehow had mastered the perfect poker face. To be honest, it unnerved him a great deal. She didn’t even flinch when a gust of wind blew across the terrace, the cold penetrating even through Dimitri’s thick furs. 

“Are you not cold?” he found himself asking, then winced — was that the wrong thing to say? Goddess, he was so out of his element with her.

“No.” She glanced beyond the balcony for a moment. “I’m well used to the cold up here.”

“You come here often?” 

“When there is a proposal, yes,” she murmured, her hands folding over each other in her lap.

A lump rose in his throat; despite the neutral look on her face the sentence itself seemed so… so _sad._ The terrace seemed like a peaceful place, a space for one and one’s thoughts, yet even that was denied her. How many men and women had flattered her with sweet words in his place? How many times had she politely rebuffed them? How long had this been going on? Thinking back to the skirmish in the woods, the march to Garreg Mach, he realized that the only time she had ever been with someone was with Captain Jeralt and his group. None of the other soldiers spoke to her beyond orders and salutes. She had always been alone otherwise.

Untouched except when sought after for political arrangements. 

And he was just another of the many, _many_ who sought her not for herself, but for what she meant. What she could give. 

“Your Maje—”

“I don’t want to do this!” Dimitri blurted out. 

Byleth’s eyes actually widened, her brows shooting up to her hairline as her lips parted in surprise. It was perhaps the strongest emotion he’d ever seen on her face. A tiny bit of satisfaction in him cheered in victory.

Then he froze, shame boiling his insides alive. _What in the world am I saying?_ Goddess, this was _never_ about what he wanted! And she had invited him up to her terrace, her territory, only for him to shout that he didn’t want to marry her! His breath choked in his throat, his heart pounding as he flushed in mortification. He felt the weight of the paper in his pocket, the carefully penned script that Sylvain had written for him and that he’d spent hours memorizing.

Except now he couldn’t remember any of it. Not a word. 

“I… see.” Byleth’s face returned to the blank mask. “Then why have you come?”

“I-I…” Oh saints and Seiros, was he actually going to be sick? His stomach felt like it was attached to the back of a pegasus doing rough flying maneuvers. “I’m so sorry, I just…” He shook his head, as if that would clear the whirlwind of panic consuming his thoughts. “I _do_ wish to propose, Your Grace, I—” He cringed; was that too forward? Oh, he was doing this all wrong! His gloves were practically soaked with sweat, and he could not look her in the eye. “I…” _I can’t remember. I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say. I’m going to fail, I’m going to fail, I can’t—_

_“I do not believe your cause is as hopeless as it may seem.”_

_“You got this in the bag.”_

_“Faerghus has always survived the worst storms imaginable. We can weather this one too.”_

Taking in a deep breath, he turned to look at the view from the balcony. _This is no time to falter. They need you._

“It was never my intention to ask for your hand,” he finally murmured. “But circumstances have driven me here.” It was an ugly thing to say, but it was the truth.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Byleth watching him. Waiting for his explanation.

“Faerghus is suffering,” he confessed. “My people are starving, and I have no money or grain to give them. Bandits prey on the weak, and my armies are not enough to stop them. Duscur… Duscur to this day is still blamed for sins they did not commit. And I… I have done everything I can possibly think of to help, and yet they _still_ suffer.” To confess the failure was scalding, yet Byleth’s eyes held no judgment. It held no concern either, and his heart hammered painfully. “I… I would not have agreed to this idea if I felt I had anywhere else, _anyone_ else to turn to.” 

“Then this was not your plan.”

He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. “My advisor suggested it to me. For the good of the kingdom.”

“Yet you do not want this.” 

“No,” he said, gripping the railing with both hands to steady himself— mercifully he heard no cracks from the stone. “But what I want doesn’t matter. My people… I cannot be so arrogant, so selfish as to think that my choice of a spouse comes before their starving bellies.” He swallowed thickly. “We are a poor country, Lady Eisner. Famine and lawlessness just keep spreading after what happened in Duscur, and I can’t… I _can’t—”_ He forced his mouth closed, squeezing his eyes shut to try and stave off the sudden wave of _helplessness_ that threatened to drown him. To his mortification, tears were actually brimming behind his eyelids. “That is why I wish to marry you. To give my people, _all_ of my people—” And here he thought of Dedue, those awful scornful looks that the nobility had given him in the monastery’s courtyard, of the horrible slurs he’d heard tossed around so casually, of the burning fields and homes that everyone believed they inflicted on themselves, in spite of all logic. “To give them the life they deserve. A life of peace, with food and shelter and everything they need.” 

Byleth said nothing. When he forced his eye open to look at her, it was as if her eyes were glass — clear and shining, yet reflecting nothing.

His stomach lurched.

“I… I realize how this sounds,” he continued, trying so hard to keep his voice steady. “I have come to you, begging your hand to save us from ourselves, and yet I have nothing to offer you in return. I cannot promise jewels or riches or anything that would befit a true and proper queen. If you did choose me, I… I would be the least deserving man in Fódlan.” His hands shook as he forced them off the balcony, turning instead to fully face her. He forced himself to look her in the eyes, to not shy away. 

“All I can give you is this.” And though this was not in Sylvain’s script, _none_ of this had been, he knelt on the ground — not on one knee as a man would propose to a woman, but on both as a worshipper would before his goddess. He stared up at her, sitting fully on his legs, his hands resting palms up on his thighs. A gesture of pure supplication. “I would be your friend.”

Her eyes widened — from his stance on the ground or what he’d just said, he did not know.

“I-I know that sounds weak,” he choked out. “I just… I do not wish to promise anything I cannot give you — that would be unfair to the both of us. I don’t… I don’t want to trap either of us in some sort of contract, a paper that we sign and then wash our hands of each other.” He froze. “I-If that is what you wish, then of course I will not impose on you! I wouldn’t dare to limit your freedom. But I…” His head sank. _Goddess above, I’m a mess._

For moment, she simply stared at him with those impassive, glittering eyes. 

Then she crouched down in front of him, her skirts neatly tucked behind her ankles. She met his gaze with soft eyes, almost glowing in the light of the moon as she folded her hands in her lap. The sight was so surprising that he simply gaped at her, speechless. 

“Please, Your Majesty,” she prompted, her voice soft in the chilly night air. “Continue.”

He flushed; was he that much of a babbling idiot that she had to take pity on him? Still, he pushed forward. He had humiliated himself already; there was no need to hold his tongue now. “I know that right now, we’re barely more than strangers.” He wouldn’t pretend that her saving his life gave them a special bond, a connection greater than duty to defend. “But given time, I… I would love nothing more than for that bond to grow, to become something more.” Swallowing hard again, he looked down at his hands on his thighs. “I know; it’s presumptuous of me to ask so much for so little. I wouldn’t be here if I thought there was any other way.” 

“I see.” From his lowered gaze, he could see her small hands resting in her own lap, her white gown clinging to her shapely legs. He flushed again, quickly averting his gaze — now was _not_ the time to ogle the heir of the Archbishop. His cheeks burned even more fiercely as he realized how uncomfortable the position undoubtedly was for her, crouching on the stone so long without allowing her knees to touch the ground. 

“I’m sorry, I — here,” he said, quickly scrambling to his feet and offering her his hand. His heart sank as she simply rose from the ground of her own accord, her skirts falling to the ground once more; thankfully they were unsoiled, and he cursed his foolishness. “I-I deeply apologize,” he stammered out. “I did not mean—”

“Your Grace.”

Jerking his head to to the side, he paled as he saw Seth standing in the doorway leading back to the monastery’s inner quarters. Behind him was another man that he didn’t recognize, dressed in a crimson and navy evening suit that somehow didn’t clash horribly with his long flaming red locks. The message was clear.

 _You are out of time._

_This was your chance._

Helplessly he looked to Byleth. Surprisingly, her hand was held up, as if forestalling the clergyman’s impatience. Her eyes drifted closed and for a moment it was as if all had fallen perfectly still. If not for the light of the moon shining down on her, he would have thought she was glowing. 

So different from the Sir Byleth he had met that night in the woods. A sliver of him wondered if they were even the same person, if the Lady Eisner happened to have a twin.

Then her eyes opened, and he was once again lost in the same pools of green that had mesmerized him that night. “Thank you for your offer, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “I will consider your words well.”

_Oh._

She said nothing else, and his heart plummeted.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The words left his mouth by reflex, beaten into him by years of etiquette teachers and navigating court. “I am honored you chose to speak to me tonight.” Pressing his hand over his heart he bowed, bending so deeply that his cape fell over his shoulders. “May you have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well,” she murmured.

And then he was back in the corridor, Seth escorting him away while the next suitor took his place, striding across the small terrace with the boldness of a hunter collecting his kill — despite it making no rational sense, Dimitri bristled at the cockiness all the same. “Your Grace! I am Ferdinand Von Aegir, son of the Prime Minster of Adrest—”

The door closed with a heavy _thunk_ behind them, effectively silencing the apparent Lord Aegir’s voice. Dimitri jumped a bit at the noise, then tried to steady himself, taking in a deep breath. “You will escort me back?” he asked.

“Indeed.” 

It was a horribly awkward silence that lay over them as they made their way through the ornate stone corridors, down the flights of stairs. Mercifully, there was no one other than Seth to see Dimitri’s trembling shoulders, the way he bit his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. All too soon they were back in the ballroom, the orchestra playing a soft accompaniment to an elegant singer in a scarlet dress. 

When Dimitri realized that the song was a love ballad, he wanted to run and throw himself down the well himself. 

“A good evening to you, Your Majesty,” Seth said stiffly, before leaving him alone at the fringes of the ballroom. 

Dimitri stared at the floor, squeezing his eye shut. _Damn him,_ now was not the time to be so emotional! Even if he had failed, as King of Faerghus, he—

 _But that’s just it, isn’t it? You_ did _fail._

_Poor pitiful Dimitri. Unlucky and unloved. How dare you think you could be worthy of such a woman as she? When you haven’t even saved us?_

_Now what will you do? Cry? Scream? Continue to ignore us, to fail us as well? We have waited, boy, waited and waited, and still you do nothing!_

_Powerless, helpless, useless, wretched, worthless piece of—_

“—jesty? Your Majesty!”

With a gasp he jerked his head up to see Annette standing there, Felix on her arm — was he _blushing?_ — her lips pursed in disapproval. “Are you all right?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I…” How in the world was he supposed to answer that question? _“Yes, I am perfectly all right. I simply forgot the entire speech everyone prepared for me, blabbered like a child, and botched the one chance I had at improving Faerghus’s future. I’m positively overjoyed!”_

“Shit,” Felix said, Annette’s cheeks coloring at the curse. “You already did it, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes.” 

“Felix! That’s rude!” she said, though her eyes were soft as she looked at Dimitri. “Oh, I’m sure you must be overwhelmed, Your Majesty!” He stared blankly as she grabbed _his_ elbow, hauling him through the edges of the dance floor. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to keep himself steady and not trip over gowns and capes, he was still shaking so horribly. When they finally came to a stop, he saw Ingrid and Sylvain coming towards him, a cup of wine in Sylvain’s hand. The second they saw him they both paled, any mirth or joy in their faces gone.

“Oh goddess,” Sylvain said, his eyes wide. “Did you…”

“Yes.” It was so hard to force out the word. 

A long, pregnant pause.

“And?” Ingrid eventually asked, her face tentatively hopeful. “Did she…?”

“She…” Damn it, he would _not_ cry! “She said that she would consider it.” 

Another long silence. 

_“Fuck,”_ Sylvain sighed under his breath, dropping his head into his hand. “Your Majesty, I… I’m so sorry.”

That more than anything crushed him. 

“Sylvain, language!” Ingrid hissed. “Your Majesty, I’m sure that Lady Eisner is just being polite. After all, there are others who will propose to her tonight — she has to appear impartial. Right?” Yet even her voice was weak, and Dimitri knew that she was simply grasping for a silver lining, something that would take away the weight of his resounding failure. 

And what a failure it was! He trembled as he stared at his friends: at Sylvain, who had struggled to write him a speech, to give him that perfect “second first impression”, which Dimitri had promptly forgotten and discarded; at Ingrid, who already suffered from famine on her lands that now the Church’s funds would not alleviate; at Felix, who despite his scowls had supported him in his own stalwart, stubborn way. He’d let them all down.

And Dedue. His heart clenched, as if his chest were being crushed by a vise. Dedue, his cherished friend, his confidant, his defender who had reassured him time and time again that following his heart would be enough, that somehow Dimitri could pull off a miracle. Dedue, who would receive no aid to Duscur, no help beyond Dimitri’s own fragile promises that he could not fulfill. His feet felt unsteady on the earth beneath, the world beginning to spin.

_You failed them all. You failed them all. You failed them—_

“Boar, snap out of it!” 

“Uh, Dimitri, you’re— whoa! Ingrid, we gotta move!” Dimitri barely felt their hands on his arms as they guided him away from the ballroom and its din, only flinching when he felt cool air on his face. 

“There you go, Your Majesty, that’s it—” Annette’s voice now, pushing down on his shoulders. Clumsily he slumped down, finding himself sitting on a bench carved against the wall. The dim starlight illuminated a small courtyard, filled with small tables and chairs for nobles to socialize. Some were occupied, yet they had guided him to a secluded corner. He flushed in humiliation, even as the tightness around his chest only grew stronger.

“Try and slow down your breathing, Your Majesty,” Ingrid coached. “In and out, deep breaths.” 

“Here, take this,” Sylvain said, pressing the flute of wine into his hands. 

“That’s not gonna help!” Felix snapped, yet he made no motion to take it away. Dimitri stared at the drink for a moment, then downed it in a single gulp, coughing as he felt it burn down his throat. Oddly enough, he hiccuped. 

And then the world grew far too blurry and he buried his face in his hand, failing to stifle his tears any longer. “I’m s-sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry, I-I forgot everything, I forgot the speech, I forgot all of it, I didn’t mean—”

“Hey, hey,” and he jerked his head up when Sylvain grabbed his shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay, Dimitri. It’s okay; my speech was garbage anyway.” 

“A-And it’s not like we needed this to work out,” Ingrid insisted. “We’ll be just fine, even without the Lady Eisner. Faerghus has survived everything that has been thrown at it before, Your Majesty. We will endure, as always.” 

“B-But—”

“Dimitri.” His eye widened as Felix fixed him with a look that straddled the line between concern and a glare. “Forget what my old man said. We’re going to be okay.” 

He wanted to protest that they didn’t understand, that as king he knew the state and affairs of his kingdom better than anyone, but with all of their gazes on him, he choked back the words. _Let them believe it isn’t as bad as you know it is. Let them keep their false hope._

Their faith in him was unfounded, but selfishly he clung to it anyway.

“They’re right, Your Majesty,” Annette chimed in, smiling weakly in the starlight. “Things are… well, they’re not perfect right now, but they’re bound to get better, right? That’s what I believe, anyway.” Gently she patted his hand that held the wine cup. “Felix is right, amazingly enough.” He snorted at that, but Annette ignored him. “Things are gonna be okay.” 

Despite the truth, he found himself nodding, doing his best to breathe evenly. Something squeaked in his grip, and Felix’s disdainful glare made him realize that he’d nearly snapped the stem off the wine flute. “Genius idea, Sylvain — give the man with a Blaiddyd crest alcohol.”

“Hey, it helps you relax, okay? Do you even know what ‘relax’ means?” Sylvain shot back. 

“This is not the time for arguing, both of you!” Ingrid groaned. 

“It… It is all right.” 

They all turned to look at him, and his face burned beneath their scrutiny. Swallowing thickly, he continued. “I… I am sorry. That was a shameful display. You should not have to see me like that.” 

“No, it’s okay!” Annette said, shaking her head. “Your Majesty, it’s okay to be sad! I-I mean, it _is_ sad that things didn’t work out. We just hope that you’ll feel better.”

He blinked — they hadn’t spoken for five years, and yet it was like she had simply picked up from where they left off at the Academy. All of them stared at him, not with scorn or disdain, but concern. Even Felix.

_What did I do to gain friends like these?_

“Thank you,” he whispered. “All of you. I…” He swallowed hard past the aching lump in his throat. “I hope that I have not taken away from your enjoyment of the ball.”

“Pshh.” Sylvain waved a hand. “It was getting boring anyway. There’s only so much dancing you can do before your feet start hurting.”

“We should get you something to eat, Your Majesty.” Ingrid paused. “Are you able to go back inside?”

He rose to his feet as an answer, grateful that his legs weren’t shaking nearly as much. “Food would be good, I think,” he confessed. He had hardly eaten all day, and though he could not taste, he felt the pangs of hunger. 

“Yeah, wine and an empty stomach don’t exactly go hand in hand,” Sylvain said. He slung an arm around Dimitri’s shoulders as they walked. “And hey, there are still some drop dead gorgeous girls in there. Who knows? You could get lucky, have a little fun—”

“Shut _up,_ Sylvain.” 

“Felix, if you weren’t so stubborn, I swear to the Goddess…” 

Dimitri smiled wanly, then sighed as they crossed the threshold back into the ballroom. Ingrid dashed off to the buffet table, grabbing a plate and starting to pile on finger food. After a while, Sylvain returned with a full glass of wine. “Just remember to sip it slow, yeah?” he said, passing it to Dimitri. “We don’t want a repeat of last winter solstice.” 

Dimitri flushed brightly while Felix snorted. “Seiros, that was bad.” 

“What happened?” Dimitri cringed as he realized Annette was still there. 

“His Majesty is… not that good at pacing himself,” Sylvain said, shooting her a wink. “Let’s just say that he got a little, uh, carried away. After _one glass,_ mind you.”

“He broke a solid stone pillar and punched through a wall,” Felix said drily. To his eternal mortification Annette _laughed,_ giggling as he spluttered to find some way to defend himself. 

“Oh, that reminds me! Father would tell me all sorts of stories of when he trained His Majesty, when he was the prince.” She giggled again. “Apparently one time there was this chicken—”

 _Oh sweet Seiros no._ “Perhaps we can talk about something else?” Dimitri interjected quickly. _“Anything_ else.” 

“Tell me later,” Felix whispered, and this time when Annette laughed, her cheeks were a bright pink. 

“Here, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said, reappearing at his side with a plate of food. “These were all of my favorites. I think you’ll love the roast duck. Oh, make sure you put the noa fruit sauce on top! And the puff pastries are to _die_ for!” 

He smiled wearily, accepting the plate from her as he shuffled the wine glass to a nearby table. Only Dedue truly knew just how limited his palate was, so he did his best to make a show of enjoying the food when truly all he could sense was the texture. The meat was soft and wet, but he could not detect a bit of its taste. As Ingrid looked at him expectantly, he remembered to nod and make noises, eagerly biting into the pastry. “It’s delicious,” he said, and to be fair, it was true: it was warm and flaky, the center gooey with something he couldn’t even begin to guess at. “Thank you, Ingrid.” 

The others began to converse idly as he finished his plate, somewhat full. He discarded the plate to nurse the glass of wine, taking a small sip as he stared at the dancing couples on the floor. Though it was selfish of him, he hoped that no one else would approach him for a dance tonight — his anxiety from earlier exhausted him, and he looked forward to the first acceptable moment he could slip away from this damned party and _sleep._

Yet strangely enough, the orchestra petered out, a screech from a violin causing the dancers to abruptly halt. He blinked, glancing around the ballroom, yet could see nothing amiss—

_There._

His eye widened, his chest instantly tight again as he saw a figure of white and mint hair cutting through the crowds. Instantly they parted for her, the ballroom falling eerily silent as she made her way to the raised dais at the end of the hall. There the archbishop waited, and to Dimitri’s surprise she did not look… pleased.

 _What is going on?_ He moved away from the wall towards the crowds, thankfully above to see above the clusters of people due to his height. 

Lady Byleth stood at the center of the dais, her white gown shimmering in the strong candlelight as if it were spun from diamonds. She raised a small hand, and whatever whispers that lingered in the hall ceased as the groups of nobles turned to give her their attention. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet yet strong. “Lords and ladies of Fódlan, I have an announcement to make.” 

Dimitri froze, a flurry of whispers rumbling in the room at the statement. A quick glance at the archbishop revealed that she was just as surprised as he felt. _An unplanned announcement? What in the world…?_

“Tonight is the celebration of Garreg Mach’s millennial anniversary. As much as it is a celebration of the peace our three nations have shared, it has also been an opportunity for myself to learn much about you. Many of you have approached me tonight, seeking favors, guidance, blessings… and my hand in marriage.” 

Dimitri nearly choked. Another wave of whispers, louder this time, passed through the hall, but all he could focus on was the serenity of the Archbishop’s scion: she looked as if she had simply announced that the sky was blue or that water was wet, not that half the nobles in attendance had tried to marry her. Sylvain openly snickered, while Felix’s eyebrow was raised in what bizarrely looked like mild approval. “She’s got balls just putting it out there like that,” he noted quietly, taking another sip from his cup.

“Felix! You shouldn’t speak of Her Grace in such a way!” Ingrid hissed, shoving his shoulder. “Honestly, that’s—”

“Hush up, both of you.” Sylvain jerked his head towards the dias, and the two of them fell silent.

“... deliberation. I have given each proposal much thought and equal weight. Therefore, at this moment, I declare to you, each of you—” and here she nodded her head towards each cluster of nobles, “that I have accepted one such proposal of marriage.” 

_Accepted._ The word rang in Dimitri’s head like a bell tolling above the roaring buzz of the hall. _She… she’s accepted a proposal._ In spite of it all, his throat burned again, and he looked at the floor in despair. His mind almost gleefully replayed the horrible scene from the balcony, his fumbling words and her cool detached manner. There was no chance that she even considered his awkward plea a suitable proposal of marriage, much less deliberated over it — her swift end to their conversation was proof enough of that.

 _“It is for the good of the people.”_ Rodrigue’s words burned in him like a brand, and he gritted his teeth. 

That was what this had all been for: his people. The orphaned youths that ran around the streets of Fhirdiad, begging for spare coin; the people of Duscur that still struggled to be accepted and treated fairly in spite of the truth; the masses that battled with hunger and wanton bandits, looking to him with lean faces for salvation. 

He had failed them all. 

_Don’t flatter yourself. You were always a failure,_ his stepmother’s voice crooned. _You should not have allowed yourself to hope, Dimitri._

“Well?” Sylvain’s voice cut through the horrid voices. “Jeez, I didn’t think Her Grace was this dramatic,” he quipped, his eyes sparkling.

_What?_

Timidly, like a small child, Dimitri peered up from the floor to look at Lady Byleth. His breath caught in his throat as she saw that she was looking at him, her green eyes sparkling in the candlelight. Her lips parted, and Dimitri tried to keep his despair from showing on his face.

“I hereby announce my engagement to His Majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

The glass in Dimitri’s hand promptly exploded into a thousand tiny pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally here! The first scene I ever wrote for this fic was Byleth announcing her engagement to Dimitri, and this is the moment I have been working towards.
> 
> Don't worry, the story isn't over, not by a long shot, but I feel like if this fic was organized into parts or arcs, this would be the end of arc one. Where will these precious babies go from here? I'm excited to show you! (Also wow I actually updated faster despite this chapter being a LOT longer than I'd planned on).
> 
> So, in case you're wondering, yes I do know what Seteth's name is, but Dimitri has heard it only once before and he's kind of screaming internally this whole chapter, so thus the running gag of Dimitri getting his name wrong continues. Also my favorite bit? Besides Dimitri's friends being awesome, it's a toss up between Ferdinand's obnoxious af cameo and Dimitri shattering his wine glass from sheer shock. (I was going to start the next chapter that way, but I couldn't resist)
> 
> A little tidbit for next chapter: we _finally_ get our first Byleth POV! (I wonder why she picked Dimitri, of all people...)


	6. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of her life, Byleth has been taught that every action has a reaction. Consequences follow every decision. She knew there would be consequences to her announcement at the Millennial Ball.
> 
> She just didn't expect _these_ consequences.

The crystalline shatter echoed across the hall.

Byleth stared in stupefaction as her future husband stood there, his hands shaking as he looked down at the puddle of glass and wine at his feet. She could nearly feel the heat coming off his cheeks, even from here on the dais, as he glanced from the mess on the ground, to her, then back again, his lips moving wordlessly without sound.

Half of her felt the urge to smile in amusement. The other half winced. _Perhaps I should have told him beforehand._ It was painfully obvious that this was not the answer he’d been expecting.

To be completely frank, she hadn’t truly expected it either. Not before he’d spoken to her on the star terrace. 

Sucking in a deep breath, she continued. “Details as to our wedding will be given out at a later time. My lords, my ladies, good evening to you all.” And with that, she promptly ran for her life, her legs shaking as she left the dais. Sweet Seiros, she _hated_ public speaking. Give her a sword in her hand and a target and she could sweep across the battlefield, but put her in the archbishop’s seat and tell her to make a decree? She was useless.

As soon as she ducked into a nearby hallway she could _feel_ the roar of the ballroom as the attendees began to chatter. _He’ll be in trouble._ King Dimitri had already been so nervous on the star terrace, and with the whole ballroom focused in on him, she doubted he would be left in peace. “Send for Captain Jeralt and a contingent of the knights,” she told one of the servants. He promptly froze in place, as if she’d paralyzed him with magic. “Tell him to escort King Dimitri and his guests to the Blue Lions classroom and to not let anyone else in until the commotion has ceased.” It wasn’t the most private of locations, but she couldn’t very well throw them in the greenhouse or the stables. The students currently attending the Officer’s Academy had mostly gone home for the break between winter and summer semesters so the classroom would be unoccupied, and most importantly, peaceful.

 _I should have handled that better._ In a politician’s eye, what she had just done was very, very sloppy.

“I-I will go at once, Your Grace!” The servant nearly dropped his tray as he ran off to fulfill her request. She sighed, closing her eyes as she pressed a hand against the wall to keep herself steady.

Now for the fallout. 

Her steps were slow and heavy as she made her way to the safest place she could think of: her father’s office. She resisted the urge to sink into his large plush chair — he always complained about it hurting his back from how cushiony it was — instead choosing to remain standing. She would need to present a strong front. 

It took longer than she expected for Grandmother and her Uncle Seteth to finally find her — undoubtedly they had been stopped by questioning nobles below. Back straight, head high, she faced them with as much confidence as she could muster as Rhea stalked into the room.

“You had no right,” she hissed, her eyes nearly glowing with the force of her rage. “You had no right to announce an engagement without my knowledge!” Seteth said nothing, his face much more composed, but she could sense his disapproval as he folded his arms tightly. 

“Would you deny me this?” Byleth asked, folding her hands in her lap. “My right to court and marry who I wish?”

“Your life is not your own!” Rhea snapped. “You have a duty to the Church, to the _goddess—”_

“Rhea,” Seteth said sharply, and her grandmother spluttered to a stop, her hands clenched into fists. “While Byleth does have a duty, she is also a person, like you and I.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “But she is right. You should have consulted us, Byleth. With our counsel, you could be sure that he is the right spouse for you.”

“I am certain of my decision.” 

“He is from Faerghus!” Rhea shouted. “He will take you away to an unstable kingdom, a place of bandits and rebellions!”

“I am aware.” 

“You would leave your entire life at Garreg Mach? You are not _safe_ out there, Byleth!”

“I have conducted multiple missions with the Knights of Seiros on behalf of the Church, Grandmother,” Byleth said quietly. “Was I particularly safe then?”

Rhea said nothing, seething in silence. Byleth waited, closing her eyes and counting her breaths. Grandmother’s temper was a formidable thing, but when it passed she could be reasoned with. It was in the heat of her anger that she acted and spoke rashly. Byleth simply had to wait for her to calm down. 

The creak of a chair revealed that Rhea had sat in the chair opposite Jeralt’s, her hands resting weakly in her lap. “It is different than sending you on the missions, Byleth,” she said, her voice eerily quiet in comparison with her rage just a moment ago. “You are protected by Jeralt and the knights. You are watched over even still.” Her eyes were weary as she looked up from her lap. “When you go to Faerghus, you will go alone.” 

“King Dimitri is a formidable warrior,” Byleth said quietly. “I have seen him in action. I do not think he would allow me to come to harm.” She saw Seteth opening his lips, then added, “Nor would I. I am not a helpless child to be coddled. I can defend myself.”

Seteth promptly clamped his mouth shut.

“There are dangers outside the monastery besides bandits and heretics, Byleth,” Rhea murmured. “Assassins, political strife, rebels with agendas against the Church. Here you are protected by my hand. In Faerghus it will not be the same.”

“Grandmother,” Byleth said softly. She took the woman’s hand in her own, feeling its clammy and cold touch. “I have made my decision. I would like your blessing, but I do not need it. Trust me when I say that I will be fine.” She did her best to smile, but it was a weak effort. “Sothis is with me, is she not?”

Rhea hesitated, then nodded.

“With my power, I will be fine,” Byleth said, leaning back against the desk. “I am aware of the risks. I believe they are outweighed by the benefits.”

“This still does not explain why you did not consult with us first,” Seteth said. “It is your decision to make, but—”

“Most of the most influential nobility in Fódlan were in attendance tonight,” she explained. “Announcing my engagement in their presence saved time that could have been wasted on letters and announcements. I did not have time to explain my decision to you, nor to even counsel with His Majesty.” It was an excuse and she knew it. The timing _was_ off, the circumstances far less than ideal. 

But goddess, she just wanted to make the decision for herself. 

Rhea and Seteth were biased — they had to be, in a way — against any potential suitor she could have that would take her from Garreg Mach. They were fiercely protective of their own, often veering into _over_ protective. She knew why: the story of the massacre of Zanado, the tragedy of the Red Canyon, had been told to her often as a child along with her aunt Flayn. It didn’t prevent their actions from becoming stifling, even confining. They would rather she not marry at all, or perhaps settle for one of the cardinals. If she had brought her decision to them, they would have swayed her into turning down King Dimitri’s proposal along with all the others. So she couldn’t have told them. She loved her grandmother and uncle, she truly did. But— 

Everyone in the room jumped as the door slammed open. Byleth swallowed nervously as her father stomped into the room, a thunderstorm brewing on his face. “Does someone want to tell me why I just had to haul the damn King of Faerghus away from a mob of crazy nobles?”

“I—”

 _“Your_ daughter,” Rhea said sharply, “has chosen to marry _him.”_

Silence.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jeralt finally growled, sinking his head into one hand. 

Byleth’s gaze fell to the floor. Was this truly such an unwise match? Did no one agree with her? 

“You realize what I had to pull him out of? It was a damn bloodbath down there.” He stared at her for a moment, but there wasn’t anger there, to her surprise. More like frustration. “You better have a damn good explanation for all this, kid.” 

“I will,” Byleth answered.

“You _will?”_ Seteth’s voice rang incredulously. “You mean to tell me that you don’t even have a _reason_ for marrying him?”

“I’m feeling rather fatigued from tonight’s events.” She straightened up, trying to keep herself composed — _be the goddess’s vessel they see you as._ “I will retire for the evening and explain myself tomorrow. Seteth, please tell His Majesty that I will meet with him in two days’ time to negotiate our marriage contract.”

Rhea said nothing. Seteth fumed in the corner. Jeralt just sighed. 

With that resounding display of confidence, she left the room, heading towards the stairway.

“Kid?” 

She paused, hand on the bannister as she looked at her father; no one else had followed him from the room. He hesitated as he loomed above her, clearly searching for words. “How much shit did they give you?” he finally asked. “For pulling what you did downstairs?” She smiled weakly; of course he would have heard her announcement, but pretended not to — it was a very Jeralt thing to do.

“A lot,” she admitted.

“Then I’m half tempted to take you out for drinks,” he said, chuckling. “Goddess, I thought Rhea was gonna set fire to my desk.” Then, his heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “You sure about this?” he asked, staring into her eyes.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

He looked baffled, as if she’d told him that the sky was green this entire time and he’d never known. “Must be some crazy wooing he did,” he muttered. “But I trust you, kid.” He chuckled. “King of Faerghus, huh? You can’t really do much better than that, now can you?”

“Not really.” 

“You look dead on your feet,” Jeralt said softly, and she gave him a little squeeze as he pulled her into a hug. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll make sure Rhea and Seteth don’t bother you.” 

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Anything for my little girl.” He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then clamped it shut. “Good night.”

“Good night.” 

She didn’t feel as heavy when she made her way up the stairs this time. More… exhausted. She didn’t know which had tired her out more: announcing that she was finally getting married to an entire ballroom filled with the most elite nobles in Fódlan, or enduring Grandmother’s temper and Seteth’s skepticism. _I wonder what Aunt Flayn will think of this._ She’d been supportive no matter what decision she made, and they often commiserated over her father and aunt’s overprotective tendencies. 

Closing her door, she barely had the energy to take off her slippers and the ornament around her neck before she collapsed onto the bed, not even slipping under the covers. One of the nuns had stoked the fire well in her absence; it was warm enough. 

_“Are you not cold?”_

She smiled despite herself. No one had ever asked her that before.

* * *

The ballroom was deathly silent as the Archbishop’s scion left just as quickly as she’d arrived. Dimitri gaped as he watched her go, skirts flaring around her ankles as she almost ran to the nearest set of doors. The Archbishop herself stood as still as a statue, as if she was frozen to the spot. 

_I can’t believe it. I can’t…_

_What just happened?_

“Congratulations!”

He nearly jumped out of his skin as Annette clasped his hands, heedless of the spilled wine staining his gloves. “Oh, Your Majesty, this is wonderful!” she cried, her eyes sparkling in delight. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now!”

And then the room _roared._

“Your Majesty!”

“Holy _shit,_ boar, what did you _say?”_

“Felix, shut up— Your Majesty, I’m absolutely delighted for you!”

“King Dimitri, congratulations!”

“Please, give my regards to Her Grace!”

“When is the wedding, Your Majesty? Surely House Ordelia will be invited?” 

“What is this _nonsense?_ I, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, am appalled that—”

“—to Faerghus? There’s nothing there but starving peasants and dung, can’t believe—”

He couldn’t do anything but stare as the ballroom surged toward him like a raging storm, hundreds of voices all clamoring at once. Reflexively he shirked away, gasping as someone even tried to snatch at his cloak. “Please, speak to Lady Eisner for me! I must have her—”

“Your Majesty, does this mean that you have been in a relationship with the Lady all—”

“—clout with the Archbishop, Faerghus has always been favored by the Church—”

“Okay, okay!” Sylvain shouted, barely audible above the din. “Leave the man alone, he’s just gotten engaged, for Seiros’s sake! And yes, ladies, _I’m_ available—”

Dimitri gasped as he was shoved back, his three friends and Annette forming almost a protective wall around him. Yet even with their efforts he could still feel the press of the crowd on all sides, his chest tight again — not from the feeling of failure but the threat of being surrounded by so many people, all of them coming for him, all of them—

_“Everyone, shut up and get out of the way!”_

The bellow somehow managed to stun everyone into silence, and Dimitri looked around wildly for his savior, trying to catch his breath. 

His heart nearly flipped when he saw _Captain Jeralt_ forcing his way through the crowd, three knights donned in the white and crimson regalia of the Church of Seiros close behind. Dear goddess, were they here to arrest him? Had he committed some crime against the Church by proposing to Byleth? He nearly choked when Jeralt stood in front of him — though they were at a similar height, he practically _loomed_ over everyone else, like a lion staring down at its prey. 

“Get your friends together and follow me. We’re moving out,” he growled. Dimitri gulped, nodded, and beckoned for his friends to follow him. The three knights took the rear of their tiny procession, Jeralt’s glare cutting a path through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. Dimitri meekly followed, nervously rubbing at his sticky gloves as he followed Jeralt.

A pair of icy lavender eyes glared at him from the crowd, and he froze.

Emperor Edelgard stood with one hand on her hip, the other resting loosely at her side. One would think her relaxed if not for the fact her gaze alone could sear through stone. At her side was a tall man dressed entirely in black, his hair trailing down over one eye. He too looked at him as if Dimitri had slaughtered his beloved cat right in front of him. He cringed; of all the people he did not wish to make enemies of, Edelgard was at the top of his list, and not just because of her cunning and strength. They had been siblings once. 

For the first time, he realized that his success in proposing to Byleth would have repercussions.

Jeralt ushered them through a small corridor leading to the outside courtyard. The cool air outside was a refreshing change from the stifling heat of the crowded ballroom, and he could see his friends tugging at their collars, glad for the chill. Strangely Jeralt did not lead them out of the monastery, but rather deeper inward, towards the cathedral.

When they came to the Blue Lions classroom, Dimitri stared in confusion as Jeralt unlocked the room. “Stay in here and we’ll wait for all the ruckus to calm down,” Jeralt rumbled, ushering them inside. He sighed as he looked at the dim room. “Shit, I’ll get a fire going—”

“It’s all right, sir,” Ingrid said. “I can do it myself.” 

Jeralt blinked a few times, then shrugged. “All right. We’ll come back when the coast is clear.” And just like that he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving them in the dark save for the moonlight streaming in through the windows. It was cold but still sheltered them from the chilly breeze outside. 

“There we go,” Ingrid whispered as she coaxed a small flame to life in the main hearth, replacing the flint and tinder she’d found. For a long while the five of them just stood there, staring either at the flickering flames or the floor.

“Well, that was… _interesting,”_ Felix finally said after a long moment. 

“I can’t… I can’t believe it,” Sylvain whispered, sinking into one of the students’ benches with a loud _whump._ “Holy shit. _Holy shit.”_ Dimitri didn’t even have the strength to chide him for his language; he himself felt like he’d ran from one end of Fódlan to the other without ever stopping. 

“So what happens now?” Annette asked, her voice so quiet in the dark compared to the roar of the ballroom. 

“Now? _Now?_ Now we celebrate!” Sylvain laughed. “Goddess, Dima, you really made me think that she wasn’t going to marry you!”

“I didn’t know,” Dimitri weakly protested. 

“You were the one who told him he’d failed, Sylvain,” Ingrid chided.

“Well, usually ‘I’ll think about it’ is just polite speak for ‘no,’” Sylvain protested. “Trust me, I’ve been rejected by enough women to know.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” and strangely Felix was actually _smiling._ Dimitri had to blink several times to confirm that the wine hadn’t truly addled his brain — besides a faint blurriness veiled over his sight and his limbs feeling particularly heavy, he didn’t _feel_ drunk. “Congrats, boar. You actually pulled it off.”

“That’s an understatement!” Sylvain crowed. “This man just put a ring on the most popular woman in Fódlan! Goddess, that’s a damn miracle!”

“As gracelessly as Sylvain put it, he is right,” Ingrid agreed. “I… I’m overjoyed for you, Your Majesty.” He felt a spike of alarm as he saw her own eyes grow misty, and he swallowed thickly. Yes, he was relieved that he’d managed to somehow win Lady Eisner — no, _Byleth’s_ — hand, but something lurked at the back of his mind. Something he’d missed, something vitally important.

_“This man just put a ring on the most popular woman in Fódlan!”_

Oh _Nemesis’s bollocks._

“I didn’t give her a ring,” he whispered.

“You… you what?” Ingrid asked, her eyes wide in shock. To Dimitri’s horror, Sylvain let out a barely restrained giggle.

“I-I didn’t give her a ring. When I proposed.” He swallowed over a dry throat, his hands trembling. “I didn’t think she would _accept.”_

“Of course,” Felix muttered, slapping his hand against his forehead with a _smack._ “Of course you didn’t think of such a simple thing, you absolute _idiot.”_

A howl of laughter finally burst from Sylvain, his entire body shaking as he bent over at the waist. “Oh sweet Seiros!” he gasped, looking up at Dimitri with actual tears in his eyes. “That makes it ten times better! You proposed to her without a ring! What a proposal is all about!”

“That’s _not_ what a proposal is all about, Sylvain!” Ingrid snapped, giving him a hard thwack across his back. “And this isn’t funny, this is horrible!” 

_Ingrid is right; this_ is _horrible!_ “What should I do?” Dimitri asked, barely able to stop himself from wringing his hands as he paced back and forth. “I can’t just wait until I return to Fhirdiad to give her a ring!” He’d left his mother’s ring safely locked away with the rest of the royal family’s jewels, and while the thought of giving his mother’s ring to a total stranger had bothered him at first, now he could see no other option. If Byleth had truly chosen to marry him, out of all people, then she deserved the ring of a queen of Faerghus. Yet a trip to Fhirdiad would take a week with all haste, perhaps longer.

“Listen,” Annette said quickly; he stared dully at her. “We can figure something out, Your Majesty. This isn’t the worst thing that could happen!” 

Sylvain snickered again, as if to directly counteract that statement. “It’s pretty high up there though.” 

“What if she cancels the engagement?” Dimitri whispered, his chest horribly tight at the sudden thought. “What if she calls it off because I was so idiotic?”

“That’s not going to happen, boar,” Felix said flatly, grabbing Dimitri’s arm roughly. “And stop that pacing, it’s annoying.” 

“I’m sure that there’s a jeweler near the monastery,” Ingrid proposed. “You could easily purchase a ring from there and give it to her.”

“But…” He folded his arms, staring at the ground. It was irrational, but it felt _wrong_ to just give Byleth a simple ring anyone could buy at a shop. “My mother’s ring,” he said quietly.

The group fell silent, even Felix’s face softening. “Oh,” Sylvain said, his eyes soft, a somber contrast to his earlier laughter. “You… You’re really planning on giving it to her?”

“Are you sure about that?” Felix asked bluntly. 

“I’m certain,” Dimitri answered quietly. “If she truly has agreed to my proposal, then… it is the least I can give her in return.” He swallowed thickly. “But it’s in Fhirdiad.”

“Then you can simply give her a temporary ring,” Ingrid said soothingly. “Until you return for the ceremony. I’m sure Her Grace will understand.”

“We could go shopping tomorrow!” Annette proposed. “Besides, I’m sure Lady Eisner will want to meet with you soon. So it could be sort of a wedding present when you do!”

Oh goddess. A wedding. 

He was getting _married._

“Goddess, boar, sit down before you fall down,” Felix said sternly, guiding Dimitri into the closest chair. The moment felt so surreal as he sat down on the students’ bench, his body almost too large for the small desk in front of him. If he’d told his past self that one day he would be marrying the scion of the Archbishop, he would have thought it some kind of twisted joke.

It was now his reality. 

“I’m going to marry her,” he whispered. “I… I don’t know how to marry someone.”

“Goddess, how much alcohol did you give him, Sylvain?” Ingrid complained. 

“He’s had maybe half a glass _tops,_ Ingrid.” 

What would their wedding even be like? The only wedding he knew was his father and stepmother’s, and even then he’d been just a young boy at the time, only concerned with devouring all the sweets he could get his hands on. He’d never been to any others — who would invite the King of Faerghus to their wedding? 

And the wedding was just the beginning. What would come after? He’d never been in a romantic relationship of _any_ capacity before — the closest was Sylvain teasing him for being popular with the girls. Apart from Ingrid and some of his classmates in the Blue Lions, he’d never had a relationship with a _woman._

And now he was moving straight from ‘recent acquaintances’ to _‘wife.’_

What would she expect of him? Would she expect anything of him? Would they send each other letters? Father often wrote his stepmother letters when he was far away on kingdom business. Would Byleth even stay in Fhirdiad with him, or simply remain at Garreg Mach? And if she stayed at Fhirdiad, would they even see each other? Most days he was cooped up in his office or stuck in court, neither of which gave much options for socializing. With a wife it would be different, but again, did Byleth even _want_ a relationship with him? To hold his hand, kiss him—

Goddess. Would they share a bed? And what about an _heir?_

“Hey, uh, Your Majesty? Doing okay over there?” 

“Oh, is it too hot, Your Majesty? You’re so flushed—”

Any musings on potential _spousal activities_ vanished when they heard a knock on the door.

“Your Majesty?”

He scrambled to his feet as the door creaked open, letting in a bit of the night air. Dimitri blinked as instead of Captain Jeralt, Seth entered the room, his arms folded in front of him. “I have been sent by Lady Eisner to speak to you. My name is Seteth.”

Dimitri winced. _I’ve been getting his name wrong the whole time?_ Goddess, he’d have to remember his name — he was one of the Church’s top authorities. _Seteth, Seteth, Seteth, Seteth,_ not _Seth, Seteth Seteth Set—_

“—be agreeable to you?”

He blinked. _What?_

“Sorry, Lord Seteth,” Sylvain said, slapping Dimitri on his shoulder; he grunted in response. “His Majesty here is just a little shell shocked from the announcement, is all.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Seteth muttered, and Dimitri paled at the flash of darkness in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat, all business once more. “The Lady Eisner wishes to meet with you the day after next, Your Majesty, to discuss your upcoming nuptials. Would sometime in the evening be acceptable to you?”

“I, uh… Yes,” Dimitri finally stuttered. “Yes, that would be more than acceptable.”

“Very well. I will relay your acceptance. The Knights of Seiros will arrange to escort you to Her Grace at half past the fifth bell. Where are you residing currently?”

Dimitri swallowed. “The, uh, the Stock Pot Inn.”

He could feel sweat beading on his forehead as Seteth’s eyebrow raised. Just what exact reputation did this inn _have?_ Goddess he should have asked Sylvain earlier!

“I see. The... er, Stock Pot Inn, at half past the fifth evening bell. Good evening to you, Your Majesty. Lords, ladies.” And just like that, he was gone. 

When the door clicked closed again, Dimitri sank back down on the too small bench. _I need to sleep._

Hopefully when he woke, this all wouldn’t be just a dream.

* * *

Fishing was one of Byleth’s favorite pastimes.

It was something she shared with Aunt Flayn and Uncle Seteth. It wasn’t really catching the fish that was the best part. It was the peace and quiet, the sound of the waves crashing on the rocky cliffs near their old home. 

They weren’t at the sea, of course. The fishing pond at the monastery was just as good though, in a way. Close to home, convenient. Comfortable.

She didn’t exactly feel comfortable right now.

“You don’t have to do this, kid,” Jeralt said quietly.

The water rippled out in front of them, calmly spreading across the large pond. Behind them, guests who were frequenting the dining hall chattered, and Byleth could smell the different spices the cooks were using today — from a whiff, they were serving traditional Leicester dishes. 

“I know,” she replied, threading the fly onto her hook as she swung her legs back and forth on the pier’s edge. This was her favorite place in the monastery — few people wanted to bother a person who was fishing. Here she could pretend that all her duties were gone, and she was just another knight of Seiros here to haul in another catch.

She never truly forgot. Her mint hair, carefully covered up by her helmet but still falling in whisps down her cheeks, never let her forget. 

“So why him?” Jeralt asked, casting his line out onto the water. It was a half hearted toss; he was really wanting to talk instead of fish. She knew that. It was why she’d agreed to meet him on the pier. He wanted answers.

Well, better her father than her grandmother or Seteth. Despite his bluster and gruff voice, he didn’t react as severely as they tended to do. To Grandmother and Seteth, she was the reincarnation of Sothis — though she hadn’t heard the voice of her imaginary friend in eighteen years. But to Jeralt, she was just Byleth. And while he could certainly churn up a storm, beneath the storm, he truly was a compassionate man. Byleth appreciated that about him.

She appreciated that about Dimitri too. 

“He reminds me of you,” she said, tossing out her own line. 

“Well, that’s a recipe for disaster then,” Jeralt grumbled.

She chuckled. “You’re not nearly as bad as you pretend to be.” Well, to her, anyway — with the soldiers it was an entirely different matter. She gave her line a few tugs, watching the fly dance hypnotically on the water’s surface. “When I first saw him, there was… I could see something underneath.” It was dark, and the king veiled it very well, but it was still there. “Yet he still treated me kindly without knowing who I was.” It was his friend the Lord Gautier who had been persistent about the Lady Eisner, but not the king. Despite her seemingly low rank, he had treated her with respect. And it had been no act. Kindness, in Byleth’s experience, was very difficult to fake. 

“He could have just been polite,” Jeralt countered. 

“A polite man wouldn’t have been so concerned about you chewing me out,” she said. The memory still amused her: the king of Faerghus, offering to intercede in one of Jeralt’s famous lectures.

Good thing she’d stopped him. Her father had the tendency to singe people’s ears off.

Surprisingly, Jeralt chuckled. “So he’s got a protective instinct.”

“He wants to change things for the people in his kingdom,” she said. “Even the people in Duscur.” 

“A lot of men say they want to change things. The last king of Faerghus said he was going to change things, and look where that got him.” Jeralt tugged on his line a few times. “If he really wanted to improve his people’s lives, he didn’t have to come and try to marry you. There are other ways.”

“Are there?”

Jeralt blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Faerghus has always been poor,” Byleth said quietly. “The Tragedy of Duscur has worn them down — it’s worn down King Dimitri too. Dad, when he came to me, he was… desperate.” She could never forget that sight: Dimitri actually on his knees in front of her, his voice ragged and choking with raw emotion. “And he wasn’t faking. When I announced the engagement—”

A laugh bust out of Jeralt, and Byleth smiled as he slapped his knee. “Oh, Seiros’s _tits!_ The way that glass just exploded!” She smiled as he shook his head, wiping a hand down his face. “Goddess, I’ll never forget that.”

She waited for him to gain back some composure, then continued. “He wouldn’t have such a reaction unless he truly believed he needed this marriage to help his kingdom.” 

“Okay,” Jeralt said slowly. “And what about you?”

Byleth turned her gaze back to the water, looking at the ripples rolling out from their bait. “The Kingdom has always had a strong connection to the Church,” she said. “But despite this, they’ve received almost no aid in the past seven years.”

“Faerghus is a proud country,” Jeralt countered. “That’s their problem.” 

“I’m not sure it is.” Byleth tugged on her line, almost more out of instinct than anything else. “Each diocese has the same stipend sent to them monthly to help the poor in the area, no matter the area. Faerghus receives the same amount as Adrestria and Leicester.”

“And?” Her father was not very patient when it came to Church policy.

“And so why is there still such rampant poverty in Faerghus?” She fiddled with the reel. “We send the money, and then the bishop of the Western Church distributes the funds as he sees fit. It’s not a small amount of money either.” She was well used to reviewing Church donations as part of her clerical training, and the sums were very large indeed. “We also send foodstuffs, clothing, and medicinal supplies. If the money and relief sent has been consistent over the past few years, then Faerghus shouldn’t be struggling for basic necessities.” 

“Maybe he’s exaggerating?” 

“I don’t think he is. He says that he’s done everything he can to help the poor. I could sense his sincerity.” She was sometimes wrong, but more often than not she could tell when someone was lying, especially in the context of a proposal.

King Dimitri had not been lying.

“So what are you thinking?” Jeralt said.

“Something is going on here that’s more than meets the eye,” Byleth said quietly. “The funds are being stopped somewhere between the Central Church and Faerghus. I checked the records in the library, and there are some shipments that have been attacked and stolen by bandits. Those are rare though. Most of the time the shipments are successful. So the funds make it to Faerghus, but the population still struggles?” And according to King Dimitri, the problem was only escalating, not improving. Her grip tightened on the fishing rod. “I can’t believe that after six years of continuous effort there hasn’t been even a slight effect on the population directly around the Western Church’s headquarters.” 

“You smell a rat,” Jeralt surmised, rubbing his chin. 

“A large one,” she agreed. “I don’t think the shipping records are being forged. But something is going on.” She glanced at Jeralt. “Who better to find out than the scion of the Archbishop herself?”

“Okay, so the Western Church needs an investigation by a higher-up. I’ll agree with you there.” He looked at her directly, his eyes soft. “But you don’t need to marry the King of Faerghus to do all that, kid. Now, tell me the truth.”

She had. But she knew what he meant. _The real reason you agreed._

“I’m tired, Dad,” she whispered.

For a long time, Jeralt said nothing, and she worried he didn’t hear her over the din from the dining hall. Then: “I know, kid.” A pause. “Well, I don’t. I’ve never been in your shoes. But I can see it wear you down every day.” He reeled his line in, then cast it against with such force it almost went to the other side of the pond. “I wish I could clobber all those bastards in the head.” 

Byleth smiled weakly. “That wouldn’t make the Church look good.”

“Screw the Church.” He hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, forget I said that. And don’t tell Rhea.”

“I won’t.” She knew well the enmity between her father and her grandmother — despite his service to her, he certainly didn’t like her, nor did he trust her very well. Even after she’d apparently told him everything that happened when her mother died, Jeralt had been planning to leave the monastery. Then something happened, and her father stayed. He never told her what it was that convinced him to remain at Garreg Mach, but it must have been something powerful.

“So why him?” Jeralt repeated.

Byleth paused, staring at her line. Not once in their conversation had a fish bit on the line — she had a nagging suspicion that Sothis Herself was divinely intervening so she had to give out a reason. 

Did she have one?

“I just…” She tugged on the line again, trying to gather her thoughts together into something comprehensible; she was no great orator like Grandmother. “He’s nice,” she managed.

Jeralt raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“No,” she admitted. She took in a deep breath; time for the moment of truth. “I… I said I was tired before, and I am. I’m tired of the proposals, the letters, all of it.” She swallowed over a dry throat. “But I’m more tired of being lonely.” 

For a long moment, silence. She could nearly hear the gears turning in Jeralt’s mind, and she hated that. She didn’t want him to think that he’d abandoned her in some way, or hadn’t been enough. He was — she could never be more grateful for her father, who took all the Church’s doctrine and reverence and grandstanding and threw it out the window to just be her dad. Her best friend. 

But she wanted more than that. Since her birth she’d been different, and when her day of ascension came, she’d been more than just different — she became something else, something so high up on the scale of divinity that some whispered she wasn’t even human anymore. 

Which meant that she had to be separate. No one spoke to her unless spoken to. No one looked in her direction unless she called to them. It was like there was a glass wall between her and the rest of the world, and no matter how hard she insisted — and she’d insisted, at the beginning — it could never be broken. The only ones who broke it were suitors vying for her hand, desperate to claim what influence she could give them.

Constantly being sought after like a breeding mare was exhausting. But not being touched at all was painful.

She wanted someone to break that barrier between her and the world. Even if it wasn’t love, even if it was just a quiet friendship with someone besides her own flesh and blood, she’d cling to that with a deathgrip. 

_“I know that right now, we’re barely more than strangers. But given time, I… I would love nothing more than for that bond to grow, to become something more.”_

She would too.

“I know it’s hard, kid,” Jeralt murmured, his voice somber as he toyed with his line. “Believe me, I do. I miss your mother every day. But are you sure he’s the right one?” His eyes were soft and concerned when they met her gaze. “A political marriage isn’t something you can just bail from if you’re not happy. You won’t be in Garreg Mach anymore, but the whole world’s still gonna have their eyes on you.” His grip on the rod tightened. “I’ve heard things about that man, Byleth. How he’s not… quite all there. And he’s a Blaiddyd. They can bend steel with their bare hands.”

“Dad,” she said, smiling softly. “I can rewind time.” 

“I know. I just worry about you, you know? It’s a dad’s job to do that.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I guess it’s hard for me to see you as anything besides my little girl.”

“I’m twenty six.” By the standards of nobility, she was practically an old maid. “Don’t you think it’s time I settled down?” she teased.

Jeralt groaned. “Seiros, don’t say stuff like that. Next think I know, you’ll be telling me I’m gonna be a grandfather, and then I’ll _really_ be old.” She smiled; though she didn’t know her father’s exact age, she knew that he was far older than he appeared. With another sigh, he reeled in his line. “So. You’re really sure about this?”

“I am.” 

“Because he’s nice.” 

She paused. “More like… I have faith.” 

He snorted. “Faith, huh?” 

Though her father struggled with the idea — he had never really been a devout believer, even when he’d gotten along with Grandmother, according to him — it was the best word she could use. When she’d listened to Dimitri on that balcony, it had almost been like her imaginary friend was back, whispering, _“Him. He’s the right one.”_ Grandmother insisted that she’d heard the voice of the goddess when she’d been younger, but her Sothis had never really struck her as a goddess. Just a silly girl floating around and cracking jokes, sometimes making people stare when Byleth accidentally talked back to her in public. 

But she’d never led her astray. 

And even if Sothis hadn’t said anything, even if there had been some sort of divine signal besides the feeling in her heart, the way he’d knelt before her…

_“I would be your friend.”_

Yes. She was sure about this. 

Jeralt suddenly chuckled, shaking his head. “You thinking about him?”

“Yeah,” she said, tossing her line.

“Then I guess I better get used to the idea of having a son-in-law.” 

Blinking, she turned to look at him. “That was fast. What changed your mind?”

“If he can make you smile just by thinking about him, then I guess he can’t be _that_ bad.” Jeralt tossed his own line, clicking his tongue when it landed in their so called “sweet spot”: the place where the biggest fish tended to lurk. “I’m still gonna watch him like a hawk though. He does anything wrong, he’ll be in the slammer in less than ten seconds.”

Her eyes widened, her fingers traveling up to her lips. To her surprise, her dad was right: the corners were turned up, her cheeks bunched up from the smile. _Her_ smile. 

Jeralt suddenly let out a whoop as the line jerked in his hands, and she watched as he started to reel his catch in. She only smiled harder as he hissed out such colorful curses that one of the nuns would have fainted on the spot. 

Not for the first time she wondered how her father had exactly managed to charm her mother into marrying him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Our first Byleth POV, and don't worry, there are many to come! From here on out the story should alternate between Dimitri and Byleth's perspectives pretty well.
> 
> First, let me just say that I am ASTOUNDED at y'all's reaction to last chapter. I was so nervous about getting it right that I really felt like Dimitri for a moment there (not to the same degree, of course, but I was a panicky mess). To see all the outpouring of love and support really touched my heart. You are all the best!
> 
> So of course I did my best to get this out asap. It's still a little rough, but hopefully it will do. And yes, you guys finally get an explanation of why Byleth chose Dimitri of all people. She just wants a friend, y'all. (But don't worry, they, uh... they won't stay friends for TOO long - I promised sexual tension and I will give it!)
> 
> Next up: negotiating the wedding contract!


	7. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth has to admit, the circumstances are not as ideal as she'd want them to be for her first date. For one, she's meeting with her betrothed to discuss their wedding and marriage.
> 
> And she's only known him for five days.

It was rare for Dedue to see Dimitri this passionate about  _ anything _ besides the battlefield. 

Yet here they were at one of the jewelry stands in the marketplace, his king and liege brooding over the glass cases of sparkling rings with such an intensity that it nearly made Dedue laugh.

Nearly.

As it were, he smiled, looming by the end of the cart so that no one would approach and interrupt His Majesty’s quest. Rings were not the traditional method of declaring betrothal in Duscurian culture — any jewelry of choice would do, so long as it had the marriage-promise glyph stamped onto it. Yet Fódlan placed great emphasis on rings, and so he would help Dimitri select only the best for his fiancee. 

Fiancee. Now  _ that _ made him smile. 

He felt a little guilty for having harbored a small spark of doubt inside of him, despite his encouraging words to Dimitri. The odds for his king’s success had not been good, considering the sheer number of nobles attending the Millennial Ball. That night instead of enjoying the festival as Dimitri had asked, he had returned to their inn room and spent his time in prayer and meditation to the old gods. A prayer to Rhiannon, goddess of affection, to soften Lady Eisner’s heart; a prayer to Ogmios, god of strength and eloquence, to boost Dimitri’s confidence and free his tongue; a prayer to the god of chance, Eshu, perhaps the most powerful of them all. 

Finally, a prayer to the goddess of Fódlan, to give success to one of her sons. 

He thanked them all for Dimitri’s success. When he had returned to the inn with his friends, he had been in tears as he told Dedue what had happened, weeping as he embraced him like a brother. “Duscur will be exonerated soon,” he whispered. “I swear it, Dedue.”

He did not know which he valued more — Dimitri’s promise or the fire of hope  _ finally _ blazing in his eye. 

“Dedue?” Dimitri looked at him presently, hands hovering over the glass display, as if afraid it would shatter if he so much as touched it. “Could you help me?”

Leaving his post Dedue joined him at his side, staring down at the glass case. “How can I assist, my lord?” he asked. At Dimitri’s request they had dressed casually so that they wouldn’t be recognized in the marketplace — though casual for Dimitri always involved a suit of armor. Still, they hadn’t been recognized yet so it was a successful disguise.

“I’m having a difficult time narrowing down my options,” Dimitri said, staring at the assorted rings below. They were all standard rings, as far as Dedue could tell, ranging from silver to gold with large diamonds forming the centerpiece. 

“These diamonds are all imported straight from Brigid,” the merchant behind the cart said. “You can’t go wrong with any of these settings either. Are you looking for a more traditional ring or a modern design?”

Dimitri paused, then looked helplessly at Dedue. 

“My lord is simply perusing your selection,” Dedue said evenly. “We would like a chance to consider, without interruptions.”

“Fine,” the merchant grumbled. “But you’ll have to put in an offer soon. I’m leaving by the end of the day.” 

Dedue sighed, turning back to his liege. “Perhaps I would not be the best person suited for this task, Your Majesty. I know very little about what makes a ring pleasing to the eye.”

“You know better than Felix or Sylvain would,” Dimitri protested. “I would have asked Ingrid’s opinion, but considering her absence…” Lady Ingrid had left earlier that day to report Dimitri’s successful proposal to the royal courts of Fhirdiad. Currently Lord Rodrige, Felix’s father, was acting in Dimitri’s stead as state regent. Dedue suspected that the announcement would be celebrated across the kingdom, but especially by Lord Rodrigue. The man had become, in a way, Dimitri’s second father since the passing of King Lambert. 

“Felix thinks that this is all ridiculous, and Sylvain would tell me to get some gaudy flashy thing,” Dimitri said, sighing as he looked at the case. “But I don’t think By—  _ she  _ would enjoy that.” His head sank as he glanced over the glittering rings. “Perhaps that is the problem. I have no idea what she would like.” 

“This is to be a replaceable ring,” Dedue reminded him.

“Yes, but… I don’t wish to offend her with a cheap offering. If she truly is to become my queen, then my appreciation should show in the ring itself, no?”

“Ah, what a lovely thought! I completely agree.” Dimitri jumped as the merchant whirled around, pulling out another flat of rings. “These pieces are sure to impress your sweetheart, good sir! And they’re made with premium silver and gold from the Gautier region of Faerghus, handled with care by our good silversmiths.” 

Dimitri stared with a wide eye at the new assortment, though Dedue frowned: these rings were more extravagant than the last set, encrusted with jewels and delicately carved. He wondered if it would even be practical to wear these on a daily basis, much less buy — and with how overwrought they were, the price was guaranteed to be expensive. And was the quality even reputable? This was, after all, a stall in a festival square. Dedue highly doubted the merchant’s claims that these were rings suitable for the future queen of Faerghus.

It seemed that Dimitri thought the same; after giving the display tray a once over, he shook his head. “I apologize, but I’m afraid this is not what I’m looking for. Thank you for your time.”

The merchant sighed, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about cheapskates before he jumped at Dedue’s glare. He had half a mind to lecture the man on the value of treating his customers well, but Dimitri was already leaving. Dedue followed, keeping two steps behind so that they both had room to maneuver in case they were attacked. Dimitri often complained about Dedue walking behind him, saying that it was like having a second shadow — he often urged him to walk by his side.

Dedue only did that in private, in the safety of the walls of Blaiddyd Castle. The world was not ready for a man of Duscur to stand side by side with the King of Faerghus. 

_ Perhaps one day, after Lady Eisner comes to Fhirdiad… perhaps then. _

For now, he would be Dimitri’s shadow, his shield, his friend. That last role was often overshadowed by the other two, but out of all of the roles he’d taken in his life, it was one of his most treasured.

“Another bust, boar?” Felix asked as they approached, his arms folded tightly — both he and Lord Gautier lounged against one of the hand-pie carts in the main square. “That’s half of the shops in the marketplace.” He practically growled the words, glowering at Dimitri all the while.

“Hey, easy there, lover boy,” Sylvain said, nudging his arm. “Just because you’re missing your cute marmalade sweetheart—”

“Shut up before I gut you with my sword, Sylvain.” Dedue stared in amusement as Lord Fraldarius’s cheeks flushed at his friend’s teasing; the sight was rare indeed. Dimitri himself couldn’t resist a chuckle — though he often faded into the background during his friends’ spats, he confided in Dedue that half of the reason the four nobles remained friends was because of the sheer entertainment value of watching them bicker with each other. 

Dedue would never admit it out loud, but he agreed — it was certainly entertaining. 

“Oh, but don’t you remember her cute little songs she used to sing? Something about steaks and cookies—”

“Steaks and  _ cakes.” _ Felix shook his head, burying his face in one hand. “Why I am I even correcting you?”

“Because you’re in loooooo—”

“That’s enough, Sylvain,” Dimitri said quietly, placing a hand on the Lord Gautier’s shoulder. “We all enjoyed reconnecting with Annette. Let Felix be.” 

“All right, all right. But we’ve got a different problem.” Sylvain said, sighing as he leaned against one of the nearby stalls. “Felix is right; we’ve been at this all day. Your Majesty, it’s not that hard. Just pick a ring and then tell Lady Eisner it’s a placeholder, like we talked about.”

“I know, but… She deserves better than just a placeholder,” Dimitri murmured. Dedue smiled as he saw the bashful way he glanced at the ground, how his cheeks glowed pink in a manner that could not be attributed to the brisk spring air. “I want it to be special.”

“Oh my — how awfully sweet of you!”

Dedue blinked, scanning for the owner of the voice — had another merchant snuck up on them? It wasn’t until he looked down that he saw a young girl, dressed in black and gold with long green curls cascading down her shoulders, beaming up at them. A basket filled with herbs dangled from the crook of her arm. “I am sorry to interpose,” the girl continued, clasping her hands, “but might you be His Majesty, King Dimitri?”

Dimitri straightened up. Dedue stood at the ready behind his shoulder — he’d heard how the nobles at the ball had mobbed His Majesty, and he did not intend for such a thing to happen again. “I, er… Yes, I am.”

“Oh, how excellent! I did not intend to seek you out, but when I overheard your conversation, I wished to congratulate you,” the girl said, clasping her hands together. “I believe you suit Her Grace quite well!”

“You… you do?” The blush on Dimitri’s cheeks deepened to a dusky red; Sylvain snorted loudly. “I… I am flattered, Lady…?”

“I am no lady,” she replied with a giggle, waving her hand. “In fact, I have simply come to pick up some supplies for the monastery.”

“Oh, so you’re one of the nuns?” Sylvain asked. “You’re, uh… You look a little young for that.”

“Be that as it may, it is simply not the case,” she said staunchly. “I am quite older than I look, you know.” 

“My apologies,” Dimitri said quickly. “My friend here did not mean to offend. In fact…” He paused, clasping his hands together in his lap for a moment; it was a pose he took often when he searched for the right words to say. “I do not suppose you know Lady By— er, Lady Eisner well?”

“I do know her, yes,” the girl answered. “Why do you ask?”

“He needs to buy a ring for the lady,” Felix said tersely. 

“Ah, I heard you discussing it earlier.” The girl smiled. “It is a flattering gesture, but I assure you, Your Majesty, it is quite unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” Dedue blinked as he looked down at the small girl. Dimitri himself looked as if someone had told him that he’d been living upside down his whole life. “I… We—”

“Lady Byleth loves simple things,” she said, her basket swaying on her arm as she held up her hand. “The wildflowers in the greenhouse, the sound of running water, the smell of a deliciously cooked fish. Those bring her joy.” 

_ Interesting. _ It would match what Dedue knew of the lady; she had appreciated his Duscur soup after all. The ingredients were simple, all in balance and harmony. Such a simple dish matched her equally simple tastes. Already he could feel his respect for the lady grow. 

“That’s uh… That’s very nice,” Sylvain said, scratching his head. “But that doesn’t exactly help us with finding a ring. Unless we want to give her one in the shape of a fish.” 

“As I said, a ring is unnecessary,” the girl repeated. 

“Then what gifts does Lady Byleth enjoy?” Dimitri asked, his hands wringing together in his lap. 

“She enjoys food,” the small nun said, raising a finger to her lips. “I’ve seen her eat many a plate in the dining hall, often without breaks! She also enjoys tea, though she has no favorite blend.” Then, she straightened up as if electrified. “Oh! Lady Byleth would surely appreciate a nice new dagger!”

Dimitri instantly coughed, his face blooming scarlet while Sylvain openly laughed, a loud bellow that brought a tiny smile to Dedue’s lips.  _ Interesting. It seems that this Lady Eisner is quite different from Emperor Edelgard. _

The nun blinked. “I… er, have I missed something?” she asked.

“No,” Felix growled, elbowing Sylvain in the side. “This one’s just an idiot.”

“Please, excuse my friends — your advice is most appreciated,” Dimitri insisted, bowing as formally as if the nun were a queen instead. “Thank you, Lady—”

_ “Flayn!” _

The nun jumped, her eyes wide, and Dimitri paused. “Flayn?” he asked.

“Flayn! I swear to you in Saint Cethleann’s name that if you do not come back here  _ this instant—” _

“I must go!” she said quickly, her basket swaying dangerously as she curtsied. “But congratulations once again, Your Majesty!” And she was off, yelling something about her father before rounding the stalls and shops.

The stunned silence was quickly broken by Lord Sylvain’s uproarious laughter. “A  _ dagger!” _ he howled, slapping his knee. “A dagger! Oh Seiros’s  _ ti—” _

“Shut up you lunatic!” Felix snapped, giving his shoulder a hard shove — the more physical antics of Dimitri’s friends often baffled Dedue, but he had grown accustomed to them. “For Goddess’s sake, we’re still on monastery grounds! You want to get locked up for your language?”

Sylvain for his part just ignored the Lord Fraldarius, his laughter petering out into wheezing chuckles. “Oh sweet Seiros,” he gasped, “oh Goddess, imagine — imagine if the Emperor heard that!” 

Dimitri’s flush had not cleared one bit. “Can we  _ not _ let that story go?” he complained, wringing his hands. “It was an honest mistake!”

“I believe it was a kind gesture, Your Majesty,” Dedue reassured him. “You had no ill intent.” 

“You don’t give a girl a  _ dagger, _ Dedue!” Sylvain wheezed. “Not unless you’re Lady Eisner, though!” And he roared out a laugh again, bending over. “Shit, she’s your dream girl, Dimitri! I said it before, but she’s literally your dream girl!”

Dedue raised an eyebrow, but he had to agree with Lord Gautier’s words. Lady Byleth was a formidable warrior on the battlefield, and one of the fastest ways to earn Dimitri’s interest — and his respect — was through talent and precision in battle. Her solemn character and terseness complemented his own personality; Dimitri suffered through most noble interactions with grace and patience, but he admitted to Dedue that he found some of the more verbose lords and ladies quite tedious. Lady Byleth, though eloquent, was the opposite of verbose. Dedue personally found her… well, not particularly friendly, but reasonable. Calm, yet firm.

He could not think of a better combination of traits that would complement Dimitri as a spouse. 

“This still doesn’t help me,” Dimitri said with a sigh.

“Why not? You could buy her a nice wedding dagger,” Felix suggested, his face deadly serious. The suggestion only sent Sylvain into another round of hysterics.

“Yes, but…” Dimitri dragged a hand down his face. “I truly wish to give her a ring.”

“Then we had best continue our search before the market closes for the day,” Dedue said. “Might we perhaps move to the more residential district? The festival would promote more jewelry, but it would be of lesser quality than a longstanding jewelry store.” 

“Yes… Yes, you’re right!” The flame of determination was alight in Dimitri’s eye once again. “And perhaps we could consult with a jeweler. A custom made design is out of the question, of course, but maybe with his insight…” Dedue smiled as Dimitri continued on, his strides longer and longer until Felix complained at him for moving so quickly.

The quest was not over yet. 

* * *

“You ran into him in the marketplace, you said?” Byleth asked, sitting before her vanity while Aunt Flayn arranged her hair into an interesting pile of curls and braids. She herself couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but it was nice looking. 

Tonight was when she would meet with King Dimitri to negotiate their marriage contract. As Seteth had arranged their meeting in the evening, they would have it over dinner. In a way, she was grateful for the idea — if there was ever an uncomfortable silence, she could simply stuff her face. And when Flayn had heard of the meeting from her father, she’d insisted on helping Byleth with her appearance.  _ “Your first date!” _ she’d said with glee, clapping her hands. “ _ And I get to help you prepare! How exciting!” _

“He was very sweet,” Flayn said, delicately twisting one of Byleth’s locks to pin it up. “And his friends were so amusing! They seem like strong companions.” 

Byleth nodded, thinking back to her time just a few days ago escorting King Dimitri and his entourage to Garreg Mach with the Knights of Seiros. They bickered and squabbled as if they were all enemies, yet banded together when trouble came as if they were family. It… was a bit confusing for her, to be honest. But she supposed that as friends, they could be harsher with one another than as mere acquaintances.

_ Will our relationship be like that? Full of teasing and pokes and prods? _ She didn’t think so — King Dimitri did not seem like a teasing man with his heavy and serious demeanor — but she could be wrong. It was hard to imagine. 

“What were they doing there?” she asked. The Millennial Festival had essentially peaked when the ball was celebrated two nights ago; most vendors and craftsmen who had come to sell their wares would be packing up and leaving soon, if they hadn’t already. 

“I cannot say,” Flayn said, smiling.

Byleth’s eyes narrowed. “‘Don’t know’ or ‘can’t say’?” she asked.

“All I can tell you is that there may be an interesting surprise for you tonight,” Flayn said, grinning with unrestrained glee. 

A surprise? “You mean he was buying something… for me?” she asked, baffled. 

“I have said too much already,” Flayn teased. “You will simply have to be patient.”

Byleth sighed, staring back at her reflection in the mirror. What in the world would King Dimitri want to buy for  _ her? _ She hadn’t thought him the type to ply a person with gifts or trinkets.  _ You’re being too cynical. Perhaps this is a Faerghus wedding custom or something. _ Or maybe he thought that he was repaying her somehow for agreeing to marry him. 

So much for claiming that he had nothing to give her.

“I must say, I am so excited for you!” Flayn squealed, continuing to braid and style Byleth’s hair. “Oh, your first true meeting with your betrothed! Ah, but I must apologize for Father’s short temper the night before last. You know how protective he can be.” 

Byleth smiled faintly. “He means well.”

“Of course he does,” Flayn said sourly. “But to him, it is as if I am a small child.”

“You  _ are _ rather small,” Byleth noted, glancing down at her aunt’s short legs. Flayn stuck out her tongue at her, then giggled as Byleth’s smile widened. 

“I know you jest, but truly! It is as if I am a baby.” She sighed, shaking her head. “However, I should not complain. Father told me what Lady Rhea said to you that night. What an awful thing!” 

Byleth’s smile disappeared as she stared at herself in the mirror. 

_ “Your life is not your own!” _

To be honest, the remark had not bit as deeply as it would have for someone else. It was to be expected — Rhea had planned and waited for the longest time for the Goddess to manifest Herself in Byleth. Yet on her Day of Ascension, nothing had happened. The only thing that had changed was that, ironically, Byleth could not hear nor see her imaginary friend anymore. Her hair and eyes had changed, matching her mother’s side of the family, but aside from those minute differences, that was it. No vision from the heavens. No goddess descending in a shower of light. Not even a whisper.

Rhea had never outright labeled Byleth a failure, but she could see the disappointment in her grandmother sometimes: when Byleth said something particular, or when she smiled at something or even when she passed judgement in Church tribunals. It was as if when she looked at her, she wanted to see someone else. 

She knew Rhea loved her — she had helped raise her after all, when her father couldn’t due to missions for the Church or illness. But she could never shake that feeling that no matter what she did, she could never truly please her. 

So she’d learned to accept it. When Rhea chided her, she did her best to improve but did not expect glowing compliments. When Rhea looked at her with those disappointed eyes, she simply did not look back. She lived her own life, even though it was not, could not be enough.

_ Will he be the same? Will he eventually look at me with nothing but disappointment? _

“Byleth?” 

Blinking a few times, she stared in the mirror to see Flayn holding up a few more pale green locks. “Would you prefer all your hair up or some of it down?” she asked.

“What do you think is best?” Byleth had truly never been good at staying current with the latest fashions; she spent most of her time in either Church robes or her knight armor, and any other clothes she had were utilitarian, meant for ease of movement and comfort more than style. Her Aunt Flayn enjoyed looking at the latest fashion trends, often describing for her niece how the ruffles disguised lack of curves, or how slashed sleeves were painfully out of season. She supposed it had something to do with how they were stuck at the monastery — there was very little chance to observe fashion beyond the tired and true smocks and robes of the clergy and the stiff uniforms of the Officer’s Academy.

“It depends.” Flayn teased both options, raising and lowering her hair as she spoke. “What do you think King Dimitri would like?”

Byleth paused. “I wouldn’t know,” she said quietly. It was a strange fact, to be sure, that she didn’t even know what her future husband found beautiful or desirable. 

Then again, her life had been strange from the beginning. She stared at the neckline of her simple white dress in the mirror, her chest once again carefully concealed: this time with a soft navy tabard and golden emblems.

_ He will have to see it one day. _

“Do it however you think is best,” she said, leaning back in the chair. 

“Then I shall leave it down. I have heard the knights say that they love women with long hair. I am sure His Majesty is the same!” Flayn let the locks fall, then slid a few fresh flowers into her braids, framing her hair with gentle clusters of white blooms. “Oh, Byleth, you look absolutely beautiful!” 

She wasn’t so sure herself. Aside from her hair and a bit of jewelry at her wrists, she looked no different than when she wore her attire as the Archbishop’s heir. “Thank you,” she said anyway, doing her best to smile at Flayn. “I truly appreciate it.” Rising from the chair, she smoothed her skirts down. “I suppose I had better prepare the room.”

They would be dining in the sitting room adjacent to her quarters. Jeralt didn’t like that — then again, the thought of any man, even her future spouse, near her bedroom made his hands itch for his spear. It was one of the only private places she had in the monastery, however. She wasn’t about to have a conversation about their upcoming nuptials in the dining hall, after all. She could have hosted King Dimitri in Jeralt’s office, but that probably would terrify him; Jeralt had laughed as he’d told her about how the king had trembled as he’d hidden him away in the Blue Lions classroom.

And she didn’t want this to be a formal meeting. She wanted… well, to be honest, she had no idea what exactly she wanted. But friends didn’t solemnly negotiate their future in cold offices. Friends did… Well, friends just didn’t do that.

Carefully she creaked the door open, only to find her dad outside. “You look nice,” she said, staring at his white and red armor. It was rare that Jeralt actually dressed up as a knight in the full regalia, preferring simple tabards and tunics for comfort — they were similar that way, though he had more freedom with what he could wear during the day than she did. He gave her an exaggerated grimace in response, and she smiled.

“If it was summer I’d die of heat in this thing. I have no idea how Alois manages it.” Jeralt tugged at his gauntlet, then smiled as he gave her a look over. “Did Flayn do your hair?”

Byleth nodded. “She insisted.”

“Well, she did a good job.” He moved his index finger in a circle. “Give me a twirl.” 

“Dad, I’m a grown adult,” she said, folding her arms.

“Yeah, and this is your first date,” he replied, his smile widening into a grin. 

“It’s not really a date. More of a… negotiation.” 

“You’re eating dinner together. By the rest of the world’s standards, that means a date. Now come on. Humor your old man before he crumbles into dust?” 

Byleth smiled, then pivoted on her feet, giving him a little twirl. The white fabric flared around her ankles as she came to a stop, her navy tabard swaying. “Was that to your satisfaction, Sir Jeralt?” she asked, using her Archbishop’s Scion voice.

“Most satisfactory, Your Grace,” Jeralt replied with a fake stuffy accent, dipping down into a bow. Then he smiled softly as he straightened up. “You look just like your mother. She would have loved getting you ready for something like this.” 

Byleth’s smile faded, her hands interlacing with each other. “Really?” she whispered. 

Jeralt nodded, clapping her shoulder. “Now, I gotta go. Seteth will tan my hide if I bring your fiance back late.” He grimaced. “Sweet Seiros, it still sounds weird.” 

“It… will take some getting used to,” she agreed. She’d been single for so long — according to noble standards she was far past her prime for marriage, even though she was still young and healthy; it certainly hadn’t stopped the proposals from coming. And now she was engaged to a man she hardly knew. Almost everything about her relationship with the king was completely unconventional. 

Just like her.

“As long as you’re happy,” Jeralt replied, leaning down to pull her into a hug. “I’ll be back soon. Let me know if he does anything, and I’ll pummel his ass.” 

“Dad,” she said sternly.

He chuckled. “Just kidding. Maybe.” And with that he was off, resting his halberd on his shoulder as he whistled a jaunty little tune that Byleth recognized as a drinking song. Shaking his head at his antics, she moved from her study — really more of an inbetween room for the sitting room and her bedroom that had a desk wedged in the corner — to the sitting room. A small table, normally for tea, had been covered with a white tablecloth, with dining places set for two; the meal would arrive later when King Dimitri entered the monastery. Next to her place was an even smaller table, more of a writing desk, where she’d placed several sheets of paper beforehand: her notes for their negotiations and a calendar for pinpointing the wedding date.

_ A wedding. This is actually happening. _ It still struck her blind, at the oddest of times, that she was actually getting married. That this was her new future.

Trying to settle herself, she sat down at the table, taking some of the sheets in her hand as she reviewed her questions and possible future issues: the wedding date, any pre-nuptial contracts that would have to be signed, details of their future marriage, the state of Faerghus as a whole. At the bottom of the list was her own notes on the ledgers she’d reviewed in the library detailing the discrepancy of the Church’s donations to the Western Church. She had little confidence that King Dimitri knew of them; the Church’s dealings were highly insular, and even in the Holy Kingdom there was little transparency. 

Setting the sheets back down, she looked at the clock ticking in the corner: fifteen minutes till half past the fifth bell. She sighed, slumping back in her chair. 

This was going to be a long wait. 

* * *

“Is this what a father feels like?” Sylvain asked, his voice trembling with emotion. “My Dimitri, my little boy, finally becoming a man and taking a girl out on a date!” Dimitri restrained a chuckle as Dedue elected to raise an eyebrow; if she were here, he could have almost seen Ingrid’s eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“Oh, shut up,” Felix muttered, fashioning Dimitri’s hair into that curious half-up half-down style that he’d done for the Millennial Ball. “There. Now your hair won’t fall into your damn face.”

“Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri said, smiling weakly as his friend tossed the comb back onto the small dresser. “I appreciate it.”

His outfit wasn’t as impressive as what he’d worn two days ago to the ball: a simple blue overtunic with a black undershirt and trousers, along with his gauntlets and greaves. He didn’t want to send the wrong impression, but going without armor for so long made him deeply uncomfortable, despite Sylvain’s protests. With an equally simple blue cloak fastened to his shoulders, he looked… well, more like a prince than a king, he supposed. He wasn’t trying to impress the most sought after woman in Fódlan to marry him anymore, after all.

He was just going to negotiate the upcoming terms of their marriage. And to be honest, he didn’t know which was more nerve-wracking.

“You look good, buddy,” Sylvain said, clapping him on the shoulders and giving him a good shake. “Now, ground rules: I want you home by eight—”

“Oh, for the love of Seiros.” Felix rolled his eyes. “You’re not his dad, Sylvain.” 

All of the lightheartedness in the room promptly fled like a candle had been snuffed out. 

_ So this is how my son spends his time? Wining and dining girls instead of doing what needs to be done— _

_ — still suffer, Dimitri, we will  _ always _ suffer— _

_ How come you get to live on and get married in my place? I had to leave Ingrid behind! And you don’t even love this woman! _

_ You’re a failure. Even if you’ve won this battle, you’ve still lost us. What right have you to enjoy this? You’re sick. _

“Dimitri?” Felix’s voice, strangely timid, brought him back from the screams of the dead.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “It’s all right, Felix. I know you meant no offense.”

“Perhaps we should take you downstairs, Your Majesty,” Dedue prompted, his steady voice an anchor in the tumult that was his thoughts. “Your escort to the monastery will arrive soon.” 

He nodded, pulling his cloak around himself despite the warmth from the hearth. “Thank you, all of you,” he said quietly. 

“Good luck.” Felix didn’t meet his eyes, but his voice was soft. “You’ll need it.” 

“You got it?” Sylvain double checked. Despite knowing it was there, Dimitri still reached into the pocket of his trousers, fingers brushing against the small velvet box. “Good. Just don’t break the box when you pull it out, all right?” he joked. Dimitri gave him a wan smile in return. 

_ Focus on the now. Let the past stay in the past. _

It was advice he struggled to remember, much less keep.

He let Dedue guide him out of the small room and down the hallway of the homely inn, his large hand firm between his shoulder blades. If he’d been younger, a prince instead of a king, he’d have snapped at him for “coddling” him, but he was older, wiser now. He knew Dedue was only trying to help him.

If only he didn’t need so much help. 

The voices kept whispering, filling the silence, but Dimitri did his best to focus on his surroundings instead. The inn was simple yet comfortable: long plush rugs lined the hallways, while the tavern downstairs was already starting to fill with guests. Ingrid loved the meat pies they served — not for the first time, Dimitri wished he could taste them for himself. Food wasn’t entirely unpleasant for him, but he remembered how the cheesy stews and sweet buns of his childhood delighted his tongue. He longed for those days of innocence, before the Tragedy.

_ Before we were stolen away. Before you failed us all. _

“Would you like me to order tea while we wait?” Dedue asked as they descended the stairs down to the first floor and its common area.

“No, thank you,” Dimitri said. “I’m sure the knights will arrive before our order would.”

“Hopefully Her Grace will provide a meal for you during your meeting. You have not eaten since lunch.”

Ah. He hadn’t thought of that, to be honest; when Seteth,  _ not _ Seth, had told him they would be meeting to discuss their marriage, he expected to sit across from Byleth behind a large desk, documents and contracts and ledgers between them. A meal… sounded more like the date that Sylvain was talking about.

“I will be fine. In any case, I can simply order something here at the tavern when I return if she doesn’t,” he said. 

“Don’t worry. If there’s one thing I know about Lady Eisner, it’s that she loves a good meal.” 

Dimitri actually jumped as he saw Captain Jeralt emerge from the shadows of the common room, two knights flanking him. Curiously enough, he wore white and crimson armor instead of the muted blue tabards Dimitri had always seen him in. He wondered why he wore official armor now, and not at the Ball two nights ago. 

The captain chuckled at his skittish reaction, and despite himself Dimitri blushed — he wanted to say that the man didn’t intimidate him. But despite being a few hairs taller, Captain Jeralt was… larger than life. And he was a legend: the Blade Breaker, Captain of the Knights of Seiros for decades. Dimitri somehow felt small in his presence, like he was a young child again waiting for his father to introduce him to some foreign dignitary. 

“You can leave your retainer here,” Jeralt said, nodding towards Dedue. “Or you can bring him along, I don’t care. Either way, he won’t be in the room with you and the lady.”

“Dedue will stay here,” Dimitri said; Dedue nodded his agreement. “Shall we depart?”

Jeralt shrugged, then started to leave the common area, heading towards the door. Dimitri blinked at the cavalier answer, then bade farewell to Dedue before following the captain out into the street. Though spring had arrived, the daylight was fading, a residual chill in the air. It was nothing compared to the frigidity of Faerghus; frost would likely still be on the ground in Fhirdiad. Part of the Kingdom’s struggle with hunger was the shortened growing season — unlike the Alliance or the Empire, there were fewer days of warmth and sunlight to grow crops, even hardier grains like barley or rye.  _ Perhaps the Church can help donate some foodstuffs and supplies, _ he thought as they made their way up the road to the Monastery.

The festival decorations were in the process of being taken down by the townspeople, as well as several knights. Dimitri smiled at that: though tales of knightly chivalry and glorious victories in battle were Faerghus’s lifeblood, he wished that more stories were told of the simple acts of service they provided. 

_ I suppose that stories of Loog rescuing cats out of trees wouldn’t be quite as exciting, though. _

Still, he eagerly awaited the day when knights were no longer just warriors in service of the king, but servants of the people as well. His father’s desire was to implement reforms to that effect, before…

_ Before we died. Before you failed us all. _

They passed the gate that divided the monastery from the surrounding town, the gatekeeper cheerfully reporting to Captain Jeralt that there was nothing to report. Dimitri felt warmer as they moved through the monastery, marveling at how quickly the decorations for the ball were gone. The entrance hall that had served as the ballroom was now just a simple entrance hall once more, and to his surprise he saw several students milling about, their uniforms neat and tidy. “Has the school semester begun again?” he asked.

“Not yet; most kids are still heading back from the break,” Jeralt said, his voice rumbling in the empty hall. “Some of them stay in the monastery, in the meantime. Don’t have a home to go back to, or not much of one anyway.” 

Dimitri frowned: if he had known that option existed, then he wouldn’t have returned to Faerghus in the year he’d attended the Officer’s Academy. At the time, Garreg Mach had felt more like home than Castle Blaiddyd, with his uncle’s cold stares and the servants never meeting his eyes in the halls. 

_ Too scared to face the truth. You didn’t want to come home to graves instead of smiles and hugs, is that it?  _

Swallowing thickly, he shook his head, trying to get rid of the voices.  _ Leave me alone, for just this once. Let me have this moment, no more. _ He needed a clear head if he was going to negotiate with his betrothed. 

“Something wrong?” Jeralt asked, pausing as he stood at the foot of the stairs that would take them up to the second floor. 

“Ah, nothing, Captain,” Dimitri said. “Just a headache.” It was his fast and easy excuse, and most of the time it was true. He’d learned to cope with the headaches better over the years, but they often struck at the worst of times. 

“Well, it should settle down once you start eating,” Jeralt said easily. Dimitri blinked at the familiar tone Jeralt took. “Byleth’s planning on feeding you, so don’t worry.” 

_ Byleth? _ Now Dimitri was very confused. None of the other soldiers seemed to refer to her by just her name. Did Captain Jeralt know Lady Eisner well? He didn’t have time to ask, as they began their trek from the first floor back to the third. Jeralt led him down that same hallway to an inconspicuous wooden door, then eyed the guards. “Dismissed,” he said curtly. The two soldiers both staunchly saluted then retreated down the hallway, leaving Dimitri and the captain alone. 

Why did Dimitri suddenly feel as if he was facing a foe on the battlefield?

“Before I take you in there, I want to make something very clear,” and Dimitri swallowed hard as Jeralt folded his arms, fixing him with a stern glare that made Dimitri feel like he was on the whipping block. “I love my daughter.”

What? 

Wait,  _ daughter? _

It was as if someone had doused Dimitri in ice water.

“And I don’t tolerate any nonsense,” Jeralt growled. “I’ve worked in the Kingdom before. I know how you Blaiddyds are. And if you’re anything like your uncle, I want to make something very clear.” When he leaned in, Dimitri could feel his breath on his face. “I don’t care if you’re the king of Faerghus; you could be the king of Fódlan for all I care. If you hurt Byleth in any way — if she tells me you touched her wrong or you said something she doesn’t like? I’ll make sure that you don’t get a second chance to make the same mistake. With this lance.” Dimitri flinched as he slammed the haft of his spear on the stone ground. “Am I clear,  _ Your Majesty?” _

“Yes, sir,” Dimitri whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Good.” Jeralt sighed, and Dimitri could breathe again as the knight backed up so he was on the opposite side of the doorway. “My daughter trusts you, for some reason. You know how many people have tried to marry her?”

“Hundreds.” He could feel sweat beading on his neck.

“Damn right. And you’re the one she chose. Don’t make her regret that decision.”

“I plan not to,” Dimitri said weakly. 

It was a feeble answer, but Jeralt seemed to accept it with a curt nod. Then, he knocked on the door twice, his gauntlets clanking. “He’s here,” he called through the door, then twisted the knob, letting it open on its own. “I’ll be outside the whole time,” he said to Dimitri. “And these walls are thin.”

_ Goddess preserve me. _ Dimitri swallowed, then nodded, pushing the door open the rest of the way. 

The room he entered was not as austere as the rest of the monastery, but it still felt… empty, in a way. Aside from a couch in the corner and several religious frescoes on the wall, the only pieces of furniture were a small tea table and chairs, along with a small desk that had been curiously wedged up against the side of the table.

And sitting across from the empty chair, facing him, was the Lady Eisner. Byleth.

His betrothed.

The door suddenly slammed shut with a crack and Dimitri, to his eternal embarrassment, jumped at the noise. Despite the innocence of the setting, he felt as if he’d been locked in a jail cell instead of being invited to, apparently, dinner.

“I see my father has spoken with you.”

When he turned to see Byleth, he froze: she was smiling a bit, hardly more than a quirk of the lips. But it was a soft expression, her eyes no longer glassy and distant. She looked… “beautiful” didn’t seem strong enough of a word. 

With a pang of shame, he realized that he had never really  _ looked _ at Byleth — goddess above, his  _ betrothed _ — before. He’d stared at her in the woods when she’d been in the armor of the Knights of Seiros, but it had been dark then. The shadows had hidden the softness of her cheeks, the slight crinkle beneath her eyes, her long lashes and soft lips. Flowers adorned her hair, but they weren’t the lilies he’d come to expect: just simple white blossoms peeking out from between the light green strands. Her hair with its braids looked like a crown, with the rest falling past her shoulders. And while her gown was similar to the one she’d worn during the Millennial Ball, he now noticed the way it revealed her collarbones, how her shoulders were pale in the warmth of this room rather than flushed from the chill of the night air.

_ How did I never notice before? _

“Your Majesty?”

Dimitri flinched — saints, had he been staring all this time? He felt like a cad, ogling her like that. “I, er… I apologize,” he said quietly, bowing stiffly. “I… Your father spoke to me, yes.” 

Byleth’s smile widened a bit, and he felt as if he’d just finished sprinting: his breath felt entirely too thin, his heart racing. “I hope you aren’t too intimidated by him. He means well, I assure you. It’s just that this… is a new situation for many of us.” 

He swallowed.  _ Focus on the task at hand. _ “I understand. It is natural for a father to only want the best for his daughter.” 

“I agree.” She gestured to the small seat across from her at the table. “Join me?”

Quickly he crossed the room, grabbing the back of the chair — then winced as it creaked dangerously beneath his grip.

_ Just don’t break the box when you pull it out, all right? _

“I, uh, before we begin, I have something…” His armored fingers felt so clumsy as he retrieved the box from his pocket. Goddess, if he dropped it in front of her… “Something for you. If that is acceptable to you, Your Grace?”

“It is.” The smile vanished as she looked at him. “Please, call me Byleth. I see no need for you to use my title with me.” 

“Very well… Byleth.” The name was strange on his tongue, but nice. His cheeks burned as he rounded the table, falling to one knee. “I must apologize. When I asked for your hand two nights ago, I did not do so properly in my haste. I wish to rectify that mistake.” Averting his eyes from her neutral face, he cracked open the tiny box with as much delicacy as he could muster, presenting it to her. “I hope you will not find this lacking,” he murmured, staring down at the small ring inside.

It was a simple design, but the young nun at the marketplace had told him Byleth enjoyed simple things. The band looked silver, but was actually steel beneath the plating — he hadn’t brought enough funds to afford a true silver ring, but he hoped that perhaps Byleth would like the practicality. The true beauty of the ring was the emerald in the center. The second the jeweler had shown it to him, he’d been reminded of her eyes that night during the attack: a deep color, rich with life and a natural beauty. Two small slivers of a lesser green stone flanked the gem, along with delicate carvings that gave the imitation of luxury.

“It reminded me of you,” he said softly, then cringed; that was _ far _ too forward for a woman he’d only known a handful of days! 

Yet Byleth didn’t seem offended as she took the box from his hands, staring down at it with that eerily blank expression. Then, softly, “This is for me?”

“If it displeases you, I can order another,” he said quickly. “In truth, this is just a substitute for my mother’s ring.” He winced again; Sylvain would be groaning at how careless his statement was. “I fully plan on giving it to you! But seeing as it is in Fhirdiad, I assumed that you would like a ring… now.”  _ Oh goddess, I’ve made a fool of myself. And we haven’t even started negotiations! _

“You really would give me your mother’s ring?” Byleth’s voice was so small, her eyes still fixed on the box as if it would vanish if she looked away. 

“Of course,” he said, daring to meet her eyes; at the very least, she didn’t look displeased. “If you have truly chosen to be with me… I can think of no other option. This ring is simply a placeholder until I can bring it back from Fhirdiad.” 

“Your mother would approve of this?”

“My mother passed when I was a child,” he explained. “When my father remarried, he gave my stepmother her own ring, to honor my mother’s memory. Her ring is for a queen of Faerghus. Which you will soon be, if you wish it.” _ Did _ she wish for such a thing? Perhaps she thought of their marriage in entirely different terms than he did — perhaps she would simply stay here in Garreg Mach and continue her duties to the Church and Archbishop. 

“I am… honored,” Byleth said, her voice still soft. It was a gentle sound; he found himself relaxing when he heard it, despite the tension in the air. “But I cannot accept your mother’s ring, Your Majesty. It would not be right.” 

“Then…” He swallowed, trying to get his bearings. What did Byleth want? “What would you have me do?”

“Let your mother’s ring be your mother’s,” Byleth answered, her hands cupping the small ring box. “I would not dishonor her memory by taking what is rightfully hers.” 

His eye widened. “I… I do not wish to insult you by giving you a mere substitute.”

“If this ring is truly for me, then I am honored to accept it.” And he found his fears fading away when Byleth smiled again: that tiny quirk of the lips was like a ray of sunshine in the midst of a cloudy day. “I… I will admit, I’ve never been given a ring before.” 

He stared at her in disbelief. “You haven’t?”

“No. The majority of my proposals have been through letters. I have not met most of my suitors in person, let alone been proposed to with a ring.” She paused, then added, “Your proposal that night was not lacking, Your Majesty. Not in any way.”

If he hadn’t already been blushing, his face would have turned pink. As it were, he felt like he’d been standing by the fire for hours. “Dimitri.”

“What?” she asked, looking up from the box.

“I see no need for you to use my title either,” he said softly. “I would… appreciate it greatly if you called me by name.”

“Then I thank you, Dimitri.” She stared at the box, that little smile bringing a slight sparkle to her eyes. “It’s beautiful.” 

“I am glad you think so,” he admitted, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “If I may?” he asked, reaching for the box. Wordlessly she handed it to him, then blinked as he took the ring out, his free hand grasping her left. The ring slid onto her finger easily, though it was a little loose. “Ah,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know your size.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I can take it to be resized in the morning.” Then, to his surprise, she took his hand in her own, her fingers wrapping around his. He swore he could feel the warmth of her hand, even through his gauntlet. “Are you afraid someone will attack us?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re wearing armor,” she said, tapping at the metal with her index finger. “I understand if my father’s presence is intimidating to you, but I assure you that he would defend you as well if we were attacked.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that,” he said quickly. “I… I suppose it’s a force of habit.” 

She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing; Dimitri flushed as if she’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “I had a meal prepared for us. If you’d like, we can start our discussion over dinner.” 

“Oh, of course.” He rose quickly, taking his seat in the petite chair at the other side of the table. A place had been set for him, along with a covered dish. Byleth removed her own, and he mimicked the movement, looking down at the meal prepared. 

_ Ah. Soup. _

“It’s a recipe from Leicester,” Byleth said, picking up her spoon. “I hope you enjoy it — I didn’t know whether to ask for a traditional Faerghan recipe or not.” 

“It looks delicious,” he said, doing his best to smile. Soup was… well, a bit of a wild card. He didn’t enjoy most of the broths, as they simply tasted like water, and sometimes the ingredients were surprising indeed. Stirring around with his spoon, it seemed to be a seafood dish, with mussels and clams in their shells.  _ Do I just force them open? _ Oh Four Saints, if he broke a dish in front of Byleth, he’d never survive the embarrassment. Best to avoid them for now. 

Delicately, he took a sip, then blinked: he could feel a bit of burn on his tongue that wasn’t just the heat. “You enjoy spicy dishes?” he asked, looking at Byleth. He winced as he saw her just swallow a large spoonful, but she nodded, reaching for a napkin.

“I enjoy most food. I imagine Faerghan cuisine is more mild.” 

He nodded. “Mostly potatoes and meat, along with dairy.”

“If you don’t enjoy spice, I can send for something else,” she offered.

“Oh, no. This is perfectly fine.” He ate another spoonful to prove his point. Dedue often tried to compensate for his numb tongue by adding some spices from Duscur into traditional recipes. It wasn’t always successful. Some days Dimitri’s sense of taste seemed to vary, with him on the verge of tasting the sweet or bitter; other days his entire mouth felt dead. 

The room quickly fell silent as both of them attended to their meal — Dimitri hesitantly choosing to simply drink the broth and avoid the shellfish, while Byleth seemed almost… voracious in her appetite. In a way, how she vigorously cracked open each shell reminded him of Ingrid, who was famous for not letting any bit of food go to waste. Then, Byleth’s spoon clinked against her bowl as she picked up a pen from that tiny writing desk. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Byleth said.

“Oh, no.” About a third of the soup remained in the bowl, though he was no longer hungry.

“Then let’s start with the first item of importance.” She pulled out a small booklet. “The wedding date. How soon did you anticipate us getting married?”

“I, uh…”  _ I didn’t anticipate us getting married at all, to be honest. _ “Did you have a time period in mind?” he asked weakly. 

“A long engagement would be detrimental, I believe,” she said, opening the booklet; from what Dimitri could see it appeared to be a calendar or planner of sorts. “While it would allow more time for wedding preparations, I do not expect our ceremony to be lavish. We want to concentrate the Church funds and my dowry on alleviating the poverty in Faerhgus, not on an extravagant event.” 

“You… have a dowry?” he asked, surprised.

“A decently sized one, yes,” she said, looking at him as she wrote something down; he found his cheeks burning once more. “As well as an inheritance. But the majority of the financial aid would come through my authority as your wife and as the archbishop’s protege. As it stands, I only have authority in Garreg Mach and the Central Church’s diocese. If I wished to significantly alter the donation rate that the Western Church, and thus Faerghus, receives, I would have to be married to you and living within Faerghus’s borders.” She gave him that small smile again. “It is… a bit complicated.”

“A bit,” he echoed, tentatively smiling back. “I am afraid that I do not understand most of the Church of Seiros’s workings.” He froze. “Not that I have been lacking in my patronage!”

“It’s all right, Dimitri,” she said, that smile growing into something more that stole his breath away. “I’m not about to chastise you on matters of faith.” Staring back at her writing desk she made a few more notations. “While the Central Church and the Archbishop have jurisdiction over the Western Church, I do not — at least not in the same manner. I am somewhat of an apprentice to Grandmother, though I—”

“I’m sorry,  _ grandmother?”  _ he asked, staring at her in utter disbelief.

Byleth paused. “Yes?”

“You mean to tell me… that the Archbishop is your  _ grandmother?” _ She didn’t even look forty, much less the age of a grandmother!

“Ah, I apologize.” Byleth’s gaze fell to the paper. “My mother was Archbishop Rhea’s surrogate daughter in a way; they were very close. When my mother passed when I was born, she asked Rhea to look after me. Our relationship is an extension of their relationship and my mother’s request, you could say.” 

“I… I see,” he murmured, his heart suddenly feeling heavy as he looked at Byleth. In truth he hadn’t even spared a thought for Byleth’s parents.  _ You insensitive fool _ . “I apologize. I did not wish to bring up painful memories.” 

“I did not know my mother; you did nothing wrong.” Byleth began writing again. “Regardless, Church policy dictates that if I were to adjust the funding the Church provides to the Western Church, and thus to Faerghus, I must live in Faerghus myself. So, in order to improve the lives of your people as quickly as possible, we would have to get married as quickly as possible.”

“How quickly are we talking about, exactly?” Dimitri asked, the blood draining from his face as Byleth turned a few pages.

“Factoring in travel times for attendees, preparations for a moderately large ceremony, and the feasts to follow — all provided by the Church, of course,” she added, writing something with her pen. “I could see… six weeks being a reasonable preparation period.”

Six weeks. He would be standing at the altar, marrying Byleth, in six weeks.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

“A short engagement indeed,” he choked out, swallowing hard as he looked at Byleth flipping pages in her planner. 

“Yes, which would put the wedding date at… Oh.” She blinked a few times, flipping pages back, then forward again as if she was double checking something. “If we begin preparations immediately, then our wedding ceremony would take place on the fourteenth of Garland Moon.” 

Dimitri had to actually hold back a laugh. As it were, he let out something between a chuckle and a sigh.

The fourteenth of Garland Moon. Otherwise known as the Day of Devotion.

“Then I suppose it’s meant to be,” he said, smiling wryly. “Though you wouldn’t mind getting married in such short order?” It felt a bit… intimidating, to be honest. Though  _ everything _ about this engagement felt intimidating. Goddess, he was marrying one of the most powerful women in Fódlan. If he were standing, he’d be quaking in his greaves.

“It is unusual, but we don’t exactly have the luxury of a regular courtship,” Byleth admitted, going back to jotting things down. “And you?”

“What about me?” he asked, confused.

“Are you comfortable with getting married in six weeks?”

_ Do I have a choice? _ “It’s as I said before,” Dimitri murmured, staring down into his soup bowl. “I cannot be so arrogant as to put my comfort before the needs of my people.” 

Byleth stared at him for a long moment, her large emerald eyes reflecting nothing. Yet she appeared… pensive. “It isn’t as though we will be strangers, Dimitri,” she finally said, her voice soft. “Six weeks is not long, but… I’ve thought a great deal about what you told me that night. I… I want to become friends with you as well. I want to get to know you. I…” He stared at her wide-eyed as she suddenly took her soup spoon and jammed it into her mouth, gulping down another large portion. 

_ She… she wants to be my friend? _

“Then we’ll make this work,” he said firmly, pressing his hand down into the table. “If that is what you believe is best for Faerghus, then I’m perfectly happy with marrying you on the Day of Devotion. And in the mean time, I… want to get to know you too.” He smiled tentatively. “It may be difficult considering our schedules, but I promise to make time for you, Byleth. If that’s what you want!” he added quickly. 

For a long moment she stared at him with her blank face, as if he’d spoken complete and utter gibberish.

Then she actually smiled, and he blinked; was that a soft blush on her cheeks? “Very well then. I look forward to it.” 

To his surprise, he actually felt the same.

With a flourish of her wrist, she circled the date in her planner. “Good. Now that that’s settled, we can proceed to the rest of the itinerary,” she said, holding up her pen. 

“The… rest?” he said weakly. There was  _ more _ she wanted to talk about?

“Naturally. A wedding date is the first step, but there’s still much more that needs to be discussed and planned.” Shuffling a few sheets of paper, she added, “If you’re still hungry I can send for something else from the kitchens. This will take some time.”

Dimitri swallowed nervously.  _ I don’t think I’m going to be back by eight, Sylvain. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all are WAY too kind; I'm still floored at how many of you left such nice and positive feedback on last chapter. I apologize for the wait on this one - you'd think with current circumstances being what they are that I'd have more time to write, but it's been a stressful few days trying to figure out online school, making sure I'm caught up with everything, and keeping positive vibes. (Also, I uh, broke down and got Animal Crossing, lol).
> 
> That said, I want to thank you for sticking with me, and with this fic! It's been a lot of fun, and I'm hoping to keep things interesting now that we're in the middle of arc two - wedding preparations! (and boy are there a lot of them) For those of you who requested Flayn, here she is! She'll be popping up every now and then, when I can fit her in. (I'm sorry if your favorite character that is not named Dimitri or Byleth just fades into the background, like Annette did in this chapter - I have a hard time juggling multiple characters, and there are a LOT of characters in 3H)
> 
> Also a MAJOR thanks to trionfi (and the rest of the Dimileth discord!) who has been a massive font of inspiration for this fic - it's thanks to them that Flayn's scene turned out as well as it did!
> 
> Negotiations have just begun. I wonder what else Byleth wants to discuss...?


	8. Negotiations Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a certain bond one has to embrace when talking about your future wedding with your stranger of a fiancee. It is a strange bond, but at least Byleth can comfort herself with one fact: Dimitri is embracing it just as awkwardly as she is.
> 
> CW: Mentions of sex, dark intrusive thoughts

Watching Dimitri drink tea was one of the oddest things Byleth had ever seen.

She’d sent for a service after seeing that he’d mostly finished his meal; mainly she wanted something to snack on while they continued their negotiations. He also hadn’t eaten any of the clams, leaving them in a heap at the bottom of the bowl. Did he truly not enjoy seafood and lied just to not make her feel bad? Should she have insisted that he eat something that would make him more comfortable? 

Well, he could gorge himself on cookies and biscuits at least. Her own tiny plate had a sizeable pile of treats. Dimitri’s plate was bare for now, his teacup almost doll-sized in those large gauntlets of his. He acted like it would explode any second, carefully lowering the cup to the saucer delicately despite the armor. 

That was another thing that baffled her. He’d said that wearing armor was a force of habit for him. Was Faerghus truly so dangerous that he needed to wear armor at all times? Seteth explained that while Dimitri wasn’t widely respected as a monarch, there had been no assassination attempts over the years. In a way, the Faerghan nobility seemed to think of him as more of a child playing dress-up than a king; a bit strange and certainly not worth paying attention to, but harmless. Apparently the flippant attitudes of the court were due to the Tragedy of Duscur and its effects. Dad had mentioned rumors about the king speaking to thin air, that sometimes in the middle of conversations he’d go completely silent and unresponsive until his retainer guided him back to reality. She didn’t know how much stock to put in those rumors; while she was sure such a horrific event had its toll on Dimitri, he was certainly lucid enough. 

Byleth suspected the treatment of Faerghus’s king was less about his supposed “madness” and more due to the reforms he wanted to pass into law. She knew already that he wanted to improve the lives of those who lived in Duscur — as it were, they were essentially isolated from the world by the mountain range and forest that divided their peninsula from the rest of Fódlan. Any Duscurian outside of their territory was often met with scorn and derision.

She’d have to ask him about those reforms another time. Perhaps with the backing of the Church they could make them a reality. 

“Thank you for the tea,” Dimitri said with a hesitant smile. “It smells delicious.” 

“It’s a lavender and honey blend,” she told him, stirring another sugar cube into her cup. “Would you like cream?”

“No, thank you.” She blinked — she knew a few people who took their tea straight, but they were all soldiers in the Knights of Seiros. Every noble she’d ever met — though admittedly they were few in number due to her seclusion here at the monastery — and all of the cardinals took something with their tea. And what was that about it _smelling_ delicious?

More questions for another time. 

“Now that we’ve established a wedding date, I figured we could put together a timeline of sorts until the wedding,” she said, placing her planner next to her saucer. Nibbling on a cookie as she turned pages, she started her list of things she’d have to bring up with Seteth: flowers, decorations, a dress, along with the guest list. “I won’t make you suffer through all the planning, don’t worry.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d love to assist you,” Dimitri said. She blinked; now that was strange. Didn’t most men want nothing to do with wedding preparations?

“It’s a great deal of work,” she said. “But putting that aside, we have six weeks until we wed. I assume that you will stay here at Garreg Mach in the meantime?”

Dimitri stared down at his cup. “I’ve already been away from the kingdom for a long while. I’m not sure if staying here would be conducive to matters remaining… stable.” 

“Do you not have a regent in place while you’re here?” she asked, frowning.

“I do: Lord Rodrigue. He’s an old friend of my father’s, and a valuable ally.” Dimitri frowned. “I just don’t want to tax him longer than necessary. Six weeks is a long time to be in charge of a kingdom.”

“I see.” She fiddled with her pen as she stared at the paper. It was odd, but she felt a bit sad at that bit of news. A part of her had just expected that Dimitri would be here at the monastery as they both prepared for their marriage. To meet each other only once or twice before the wedding… well, it would only make things even more bizarre than they already were.

“However, you do bring up a fair point,” Dimitri said, his eyes flitting up from his cup to look at her. Hunched as he was over the table, he looked something akin to a skittish cat; the thought brought a smile to her lips. “If I did travel back to Faerghus, the trip would take a week at the very least. We traveled here in ten days — I would hardly be back longer than the time it would take to travel home.” He sighed, gaze back to his teacup, as if he were searching its depths for answers. “And… to be honest, I don’t exactly want to return.”

“Why is that?” she asked. 

“I want to spend time with you.” 

_Oh._

His cheeks were flushed again as he looked at her. It was a bit amusing how every so often he’d go pink in the face, his words tumbling out like fish falling from a waterfall. “I know it sounds selfish of me; I don’t wish to abandon my duties, not in the slightest, nor do I wish to trouble you—”

“Getting to know your future spouse is not abandoning your duty, in my opinion,” she soothed softly; the image of the skittish cat returned as she looked at him. “Consider it as strengthening relations between the kingdom and the Church.” She shot him a wan smile — he returned it with his own that was just as thin. “You wouldn’t be troubling me either. You’re right in that wedding preparations will take up time, but I have assistants and members of the clergy to help me with that.” Seteth was probably going to hate her by the time this wedding business was done. “If it’s agreeable to you, we could meet like this again.”

“You mean dinner?” Dimitri asked.

“Well, I mean anything. Tea, dinner, lunch — whatever best fits our schedules. I’m often busy assisting Gran— the Archbishop with her duties and training with my father, but I promise I will set aside time in my schedule.” Her planner was full of duties tomorrow, especially if she was going to meet with Seteth to begin wedding planning. “I could meet with you sometime in the late morning tomorrow.”

“All right.” Dimitri folded his hands on the table. “Will I have any duties I need to perform during my stay here?”

“You’d be considered an honored guest; any duties can be performed by the staff at the monastery. Unless you’re also somehow a priest, I don’t see anything that you would be required to do.” She rose an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“I just… find it difficult to stand still sometimes,” Dimitri admitted, his cheeks glowing again as if he was confessing some sin. “When others are working around me and I can’t do anything, I become restless.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then I can certainly use your help with these wedding preparations,” she said, feeling a bit of relief. “As well as assembling a guest list. We also have pegasus couriers in case you need to communicate with Faerghus for any reason, and I certainly won’t keep you here if there’s a national emergency. I’ll have Seteth prepare you and your entourage rooms here in the monastery. They are no royal quarters, but…”

“I’m sure we will be fine,” Dimitri reassured her, smiling back. “We may bear the titles of nobles, but we are no strangers to hardship. A roof over our heads and a bed at the end of the day is sufficient for us.”

Now she was truly baffled. Most dignitaries to Garreg Mach had complained about the austere environment and lack of comfortable furnishings, though Grandmother never paid them any heed. To her each human was the same, regardless of rank or race or creed, and thus they all got the same treatment. 

“Is something the matter?” Dimitri asked.

“No,” she said quickly, jotting down another note — _ask Seteth about quarters for Dimitri + co._ “That’s just not a very common sentiment among nobility.” Another question to ask him about; what had his life been like that he would be comfortable living in a monastery? What was life like in Faerghus for him?

She had so many questions. Despite his sincerity, so much of Dimitri was a complete mystery to her. 

_Or it’s because you know nothing about how the outside world works. You’ve been kept here at Garreg Mach too long._ It was an uncomfortable feeling, realizing that despite all her attempts to cure her naivete, some of it still lingered in her. 

“Well, that said, let’s discuss post-wedding arrangements,” she said. “I will of course travel back with you to Faerghus — unless that is undesirable to you?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “Besides, didn’t you say that you needed to live in Fhirdiad to affect Church policy?”

She nodded. “Just ensuring that we were on the same page.” She scribbled down another note — _ask Seteth about travel arrangements_ — before she looked up at Dimitri, taking another biscuit from the tray. “What about prenuptial contracts?” she asked.

Dimitri blinked, which was an answer in and of itself.

“Surely there are terms and conditions for our marriage?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Dowry requirements? Clauses on divorce, and so on?”

“I…” He coughed. “I would not have any experience with such things.”

 _Well, that makes two of us._ “I see. Perhaps you can contact your regent, and he can send the necessary documents by messenger hawk?” 

“I… Yes. Of course.” That blush lingered on his cheeks as he looked down at his tea.

 _Oh._ “I’m sorry,” Byleth said quietly. “I had no intention of embarrassing you.”

“No, it’s fine. I understand.” He chuckled quietly. “It just goes to show you that I didn’t think…” He sighed, shaking his head. “My apologies. I’ll contact Lord Rodrigue first thing in the morning.”

“That would be for the best.” She moved down to the next item on her list. “I know that most prenuptial contracts would have these listed and we would agree on them formally, but these next topics I figured would be best to go about in private first.” 

Dimitri nodded, picking up his teacup. “Very well.”

Byleth glanced up at him. “About how long would you estimate until we begin sexual relations?”

Dimitri jumped as if she’d slapped him across the face, and Byleth watched wide-eyed as he actually cracked his teacup in two, tea spilling onto the white tablecloth. 

If she’d thought she’d seen him embarrassed before, that was nothing compared to the sight she saw now: Dimitri gaped at her as if she’d stripped naked, his mouth slack as his gaze darted from her to the blooming stain on the tea table back to her again. “I-I… Forgive me, Your Grace,” he stammered, sweeping the shards of the broken cup. “I didn’t mean to… blasted crest—”

“It’s all right,” she said, rising from her chair. “Here, I can…” She gathered up the napkin from her lap, bending over next to his seat to sweep the shards up.

“Wait,” he said, his face still cherry red as he looked up at her. “Your hands—”

“I’ll be fine,” she said patiently, using part of the napkin to clear the shards off the table. Thankfully Dimitri had mainly broken the cup in two. “I suppose this is why you wear the gauntlets?” she asked, looking down at his armored hands. 

He dipped his head down, then bizarrely straightened back up as if she’d jabbed him in the back, his face somehow even redder than before. The motion was similar to a deranged marionette. “Yes, well, I…” He coughed. “One of the reasons, yes.”

She did her best to smile reassuringly, though that didn’t seem to comfort him too much — he couldn’t look her in the eye, instead choosing to stare somewhere past her shoulder. “Well, it’s all cleaned up now.” She wadded the napkin into a tight ball. “Don’t worry — it was a generic set.”

Dimitri shuddered, presumably at the thought of breaking an expensive heirloom tea set. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “I… I usually have more control over my crest than this.”

That was right; Dimitri as King of Faerghus bore the Crest of Blaiddyd, said to give the bearer unnatural strength. She hadn’t heard much of it besides that, but seeing how easily Dimitri had shattered the cup — and his wineglass the night she’d announced their engagement — was proof enough that he wasn’t just strong, but supernaturally so. Granted, any man could break a glass, but on accident? With hardly any exertion?

“It’s fine,” she repeated, setting aside the napkin ball as she returned to her seat. “Does this happen often?”

“Far more than I’d like it to,” he admitted. “I have far greater mastery over my strength than when I was a child, but it still… creeps up on me, I suppose would be the best way of putting it.” 

“I don’t suppose that your crest also gives you supernatural protection against hot beverages?” she asked, looking down at his gloves. “Did the tea burn you?”

“Oh no,” he replied, shaking his head. “It was just warm. I’m perfectly all right. Your hands?” he asked in turn.

She held them up. “Scratch free.” Lowering them to fiddle in her lap, she resisted the urge to stuff another cookie in her mouth. _This is not going as smoothly as I’d hoped._ “I suppose it was my fault, asking such a question out of the blue. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” It was so strange how Dimitri seemed so insistent on taking the blame for almost everything, even when she was the direct cause of his actions. _Perhaps he’s afraid of offending me. I am essentially holding the future of his country in his hands._ “I… I was simply unprepared for such a question.”

“Are you prepared now?”

He flushed again. “I… Yes, I suppose.”

“I’m aware that right now we’re hardly more than strangers,” Byleth said softly, trying to soothe him as best she could. “I don’t wish to force you into something you don’t wish to do. I certainly don’t plan on seducing you. I merely ask due to my first role as your future queen.”

Something seemed to click as he looked at her, his eye narrowing. “Providing an heir.”

She nodded. It was one of the first things she’d learned when Seteth and Rhea had educated her on the nobility and their ways. To them, her value was not from her position in the Church or in her ways with the sword, but in her ability to provide a child with a crest. At first she’d rebelled against that idea, thought it unfair, but over time with each letter and proposal she'd received, she'd realized her family was right. To others, her position and influence came second to her womb. Fury died down to cold weary acceptance over time. Yet with Dimitri...

Twisting her pen in her lap, she waited. _Don’t expect too much._

Yet Dimitri didn’t meet her eyes; instead he looked down at the large stain on the tablecloth. “I… also do not wish to pressure you into something you don’t wish to do.” His hands curled into fists on the table. “I know that there are… expectations that society, especially noble society, has for women in positions of power. Especially when it comes to… providing heirs.” Despite his obvious discomfort, he managed to look her in the eye, his blue soft yet piercing all at once. “I have no expectations for you, Your Grace.”

Curiously enough, her throat grew tight. “Byleth,” she corrected softly. “Please, let’s not make this any more formal than it has to be.”

“Byleth,” he repeated. His cheeks had managed to cool down from their fiery red. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I don’t expect you to provide me with an heir. Or even… you know.” She did, nodding. “If such a thing were to happen, I would hope it would come naturally between us.” 

“Despite the pressure from others?” she asked softly. Dimitri was twenty three. The fact that he was still unmarried was curious enough; she couldn’t imagine that the court of Faerghus would leave him alone about matters of passing on his bloodline and crown.

“If there truly is a need for an heir, then we can make something work,” he said quietly. “Something that we’re all happy with. But for now, I don’t have any expectations — for an heir or otherwise.” 

Somehow, she felt a pressure release inside of her, a weight disappear that she hadn’t known was there before. “I… see,” she said softly. “And what of mistresses?”

Dimitri choked again, and she was sure that if the teacup he’d been holding before hadn’t shattered in his grasp, he would have crushed it to porcelain powder by now. “N-No,” he choked out, swallowing hard. “No mistresses.” She stared in apprehension as he looked darkly at the tablecloth. Clearly the topic had some deeper meaning for him, something he did not like.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” she said quietly. “It’s just that what you’re saying basically amounts to you being celibate unless things actually… progress between us.” 

“I know.”

“That’s… okay with you?” she asked incredulously.

When he looked at her, she’d never seen him so sincere and earnest. “Yes.”

“Why?” she blurted out. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said, his voice suddenly soft. “It’s what my father would have done, if he were in my position.” His vision dimmed, as if remembering some dark distant memory. “I… want to do right by you, Byleth. I don’t want to…” He sighed, clasping his hands. “Let’s just say that I don’t wish to make the same mistakes one member of my family has.”

 _Oh._ That was right — before Dimitri, his uncle had been acting regent over Faerghus, and Dad had told her about his reputation. Lord Rufus was something of a serial philanderer, and rumors had spread that he had some dozen bastard children running around in Fhirdiad’s slums. He had also spent his time as regent mainly getting himself fat while the people clamored for help against the rising wave of banditry and famine. Grandmother had spoken heatedly of his gluttony and indulgence at the time; Byleth remembered her giving several pointed sermons on the blessings of caring for the poor whenever a major official from Faerghus stayed at the monastery.

“I understand,” she replied. “And… thank you, Dimitri.” 

“Of course,” he answered simply. As if his answer was obvious. As if waiting until she was ready to begin intimacy with him was the commonly picked choice.

 _You made the right decision,_ that familiar voice whispered.

She swallowed. “Then I suppose we can table this discussion for later. When the… circumstances change.”

He nodded quickly, looking about as relieved as she felt.

 _This is scary for him too._ No wonder he acted like he was walking on eggshells around her.

Taking a large bite from a cookie, she sank back in her chair — for some reason the will and motivation to keep up the prim and proper front of an Archbishop’s scion had utterly collapsed inside her. _I guess talking about having sex with a man you’ve only known for a few days will do that to you._ “I have a few more items to talk about,” she said after swallowing — she wasn’t _that_ relaxed to eat in front of him like she did with her father. “If that’s all right?”

“Of course,” he said quietly.

The matters following were rather trivial: the expected guest list size for the Faerghan side of the wedding ceremony (predictably larger than her… rather small band of guests), whether there were any traditional customs obligated to be performed (none sprang to mind), and her expected roles as queen when she would arrive in Faerghus (namely assist Dimitri in his work, as well as negotiate with the Church on lending more financial support).

When she reached the last item on her list, she hesitated.

Her suspicions about the Western Church lying about their finances — or what they were doing with them — were still high. Last night she had talked to the last detail of knights who had visited the Western Church’s headquarters in Arianrhod, and they had confirmed that the poverty levels there were the same as ever — some even told her that the surrounding villages seemed worse off than before. Byleth wanted to investigate the situation in person, preferably sometime before the wedding so she could get a more accurate grasp of what was actually happening without having to rely on eyewitness accounts and ledgers that could be forged. Yet when she looked at Dimitri, who innocently stared back, she paused.

 _If I’m wrong, then he’ll take the brunt of the Western Bishop’s ire. Which would make his position in Faerghus even worse._ She couldn’t risk that.

“That’s it,” she said, closing the planner.

Dimitri paused. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” She smiled. “You’re a free man, Your Majesty.”

“Dimitri,” he said, though he smiled back; he seemed to have understood her teasing. “I don’t suppose you know the time?”

She turned around in her seat, then blinked. _What?_ “It’s, uh, about half past eleven,” she said, turning around.

Dimitri paled. “Oh dear.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean for this to go on so long.” 

“No, it’s fine, it’s just…” He chuckled. “I’m sure it was a jest, but my friends expected me back by eight.” 

_Seiros’s tits._ “Then I shall have to formally apologize to them for keeping you out so late,” she said, rising from her chair. Would they need a letter, or would an apology in person suffice? Granted, they could already be traveling on their way back to Faerghus.

“That isn’t necessary,” Dimitri said, raising a hand. “Trust me, they were only joking.”

 _Is that normal? To joke like that with a king?_ No one ever so much as gave her a smile, much less cracked jokes with her, unless they were family. And he called them his friends. She remembered seeing his same travel companions at his side at the ball. 

Perhaps… Well, after Faerghus was settled. Then she could think about having friends besides Dimitri. 

“My father will escort you back,” Byleth said, rising from her chair. “And I’ll make sure he doesn’t give you any trouble.” Dimitri followed suit, smoothing down his tunic as he stood. For the first time when she stopped in front of him, she realized just how tall he was — even taller than her father. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, despite how small and timid he’d looked at the tea table. 

So many contradictions. So many mysteries this one man held. 

Was it a bad thing to be excited about uncovering them?

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said softly. “It was nice.”

“Yes, it was.” Almost reflexively he took her hand in his, the leather warm and soft against her skin, but he didn’t kiss it like she expected. “And I’m sorry about the teacup. If you’d like me to pay for it…”

“All ten gold it’s worth?” She smiled, shaking her head. “We can just tab it to wedding expenses.”

For the first time, she actually heard him laugh. It wasn’t loud or boisterous like her father’s — it sounded similar to Uncle Seteth’s, in a way. A soft chuckle edged with a bit of nervousness, yet filled with warmth and good humor. 

She decided she liked it. 

“I should let you go.” Letting her hand slip out of his, she crossed to the door and opened it. “We’re done,” she told Jeralt, who sighed as he straightened up from leaning against the wall, his joints cracking with the motion. 

“Finally. I was about to fall asleep,” he groaned, and she smiled as she shook her head. Jeralt wouldn’t have even blinked the whole time, what with him being so concerned about her safe from Dimitri’s supposed “mad desires” — which she had just discovered he most certainly didn’t have. “What did you do in there, recite half the Book of Seiros?” 

“I’ll have you know we were discussing very adult things, Father,” she said stiffly. When he chuckled, she smiled back. “Dimitri needs an escort back to his inn.”

Jeralt sighed. “Going by first names now, are we?”

“I certainly hope I can call my husband by my first name.” Her eyes narrowed. “And be nice. I know you scared him half to death before you sent him in.”

“I’ll be nice when he proves to me that I can be nice,” Jeralt retorted back. Byleth sighed, shaking her head as Dimitri tentatively emerged from the room. “All right, back to the Stock Pot Inn?”

“Yes, sir.” Byleth had to keep herself from smiling at how uptight Dimitri suddenly became, his posture absolutely perfect. “Thank you, Captain Jeralt, for escorting me.” Her father’s only answer was to roll her eyes, and she shot him a pointed glare. _Be nice!_

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said. 

And it was as if a switch had been flipped in her future husband: he instantly softened, a small smile quirking up his lips. “Tomorrow then.” 

“What’s this about tomorrow?” Jeralt asked, shooting his own pointed look at Byleth.

“Dimitri will be staying with us at Garreg Mach until the wedding,” Byleth said, folding her arms. “We’re getting married in six weeks. Isn’t that wonderful, _Father?”_

It was worth telling Jeralt just to see his eyes nearly shoot out of his skull. She could have sworn she heard several curses hissed beneath his breath, and Dimitri looked at her with pure panic.

Then Jeralt sighed, rubbing at his face. “Yeah. It’s… great. Fantastic. Come on, Your Majesty, we’re leaving.” She barely had time to mouth an apology before Jeralt essentially hauled her fiance away by the arm, leaving her alone in the hallway. Yet Dimitri only offered her a bashful smile, complete with blush and all.

She decided that she very much liked that blush on his face. And it bothered her that she had no idea why.

With a sigh, she went back into her sitting room, then stumbled into her bedroom before throwing herself on the bed. _That was exhausting._ Yet she hadn’t felt tired while talking with Dimitri. Tense, of course, but not tired. Almost.. invigorated. She hadn’t spoken with anyone, not even her family, for such a long period of time. And Dimitri was so different from the few nobles she’d actually met in person; he didn't hide behind eloquence or rank. Though she doubted he spoke his mind on every issue she'd brought up, he was at least straightforward and to the point. She liked that.

Maybe… Maybe things actually _could_ progress between them.

 _That’s the fatigue talking,_ her mind warned her. _Go to sleep. You’ve got a wedding to plan tomorrow._ Shucking her dress so she was just in her chemise, she picked at the flowers Flayn and placed in her hair, then grimaced as something got caught in one of the braids. When she finally managed to pull it out, she blinked.

The silver ring Dimitri had given her stared back, its small emerald sparkling in the light of the hearth. It was too large for her finger, almost dangling off even around the knuckle, but she smiled as she slid it back down, twisting it a few times to get used to the feeling of metal on her skin. It was simple, almost humble. Like the man who had given it to her.

_Yeah. You made the right decision._

* * *

“That’s everything, right?” Sylvain asked, putting down the last chest. 

“According to the recorded inventory, yes,” Dedue said, glancing at the list he’d procured from their convoy. “Do you agree, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri nodded, staring at his new quarters. While they were more spacious than his dormitory room as a student had been, the walls were just as bare. A humble blue rug decorated the floor, and he had the basic furnishings: desk, shelving for books, a decently sized bed. Like Byleth had said, it was no royal suite, and the inn room they’d been staying at was far more comfortable and inviting. But this was free, and Dimitri couldn’t help but notice that his money bags were far lighter now than when he’d left Fhirdiad.

The luggage he’d brought with him was neatly stacked in the corner, along with a few bags haphazardly thrown about by Felix and Sylvain. It felt a bit awkward, seeing all his belongings for the next six weeks in such a small space, but the wedding would bring far more accouterments than he could ever wish for. 

“Thank you, all of you,” he said. “Dedue, would you like help settling in?” As his retainer, Dedue would stay in the next room over, while Sylvain, Felix, and the honor guard he had brought with him would return to Faerghus. It was bittersweet — at least Dimitri would not be totally alone in the monastery, but he still would miss his friends. It had been too long since they’d all been together in one space, and he already missed Ingrid’s firm yet kind hand. 

“Yeah, we’ve got a few minutes, Dedue,” Sylvain said. “We can help you unpack before we head out.”

“Thank you, but I believe I can handle that task alone, Your Majesty, Lord Gautier,” he said with a small smile. “If I may?”

“Of course.” Dedue rarely asked for help with setting up his own things — part of that due to the fact that he had very few possessions. To him, Dimitri’s stacks of trunks would probably be a treasure horde. 

As Dedue moved to the room next door, Felix glanced around Dimitri’s new room. “I like it.”

“That’s because you have no taste, Felix,” Sylvain said, shaking his head. “It feels like a tomb in here.”

Dimitri chuckled, though he agreed more with Felix — much of the extravagance of the royal palace in Fhirdiad set him on edge. He ate on plates laced with gold and slept in silk sheets, while someone else ate meager scraps and slept on the floor. It didn’t seem right that just because he was born to it, he had the right of wealth and luxury. 

A part of him found the simplicity of life here at the monastery alluring. No pressing issues, no nobles coming to him to solve their problems. Perhaps here, he could…

_What? Be yourself? Turn into the monster you really are and scare your adorable fiancee away?_

_You can never escape who you truly are._

_She’d throw the ring back at you and run if she knew what you are in the dark._

“... ness? Your Highness?”

Dimitri blinked, looking at Sylvain and Felix. “We’re gonna head out now,” Sylvain said, patting Dimitri’s shoulder. “Need anything else?” 

Head out? He swallowed hard, trying to shut out the voices — _let the past stay in the past_ — as he shook his head. “No, this will be fine. Thank you.”

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Sylvain said, planting his hands on his hips as he looked around the room. “Goddess, it’s like you’re a student again. Simpler times back then.”

_For him. Not for you._

“It was,” Dimitri agreed, tightening his hands into fists. Though the veil of grief had been heavy back then, some of his most cherished memories were created within these walls. “Are you sure you can’t stay? I can discuss room and board with the Archbishop.”

“Unfortunately my old man’s dying to have me back,” Sylvain sighed. “Says he wants me with the Lance of Ruin back at my post.” Dimitri nodded sympathetically; Sylvain had never cherished his duty as the heir of House Gautier, nor the fact that he’d essentially been pressed into it by virtue of simply being born with a crest. It was a matter that he and Dimitri had discussed time and time again: while crests were of great worth, the time would soon come when they would face a world without them. Already several bloodlines were beginning to die out or run perilously thin — his own family had not received a major crest of Blaiddyd in three generations. 

And that was overlooking the abuse of power crests often brought with them. Sylvain had suffered greatly at the hands of his brother because of the crest; several of his classmates had confided that their own crests had brought them misery. Dimitri agreed with Sylvain that the attitudes about crests needed to change. The system itself had to change. But those conversations were always spoken in hypothetical — when the kingdom would “get better.” 

Perhaps with this wedding and the support of the Church, such changes were possible. 

Dimitri felt ashamed of his resentful attitude he’d held towards his situation while traveling to Garreg Mach. A marriage with Byleth held so many possibilities, so many chances of a brighter future for everyone. Yet he’d been horribly selfish, only concerned about his own discomfort.

But now… perhaps he could take part in that brighter future as well. With her.

“... think he’ll miss us that much.”

“Sorry?” he asked, raising his head. 

“Busy thinking about the future Mrs. Blaiddyd?” Sylvain teased. “A monastery isn’t the most romantic place, but there’s definitely ways to have some fun while you’re here.”

Dimitri flushed, swallowing hard. He’d refused to talk about… _that_ part of his negotiations with Byleth for that reason. “Certainly not,” he ground out, folding his arms tightly as he glared at his friend. “Sylvain, we hardly even know each other!”

“Hasn’t stopped me—” Sylvain wheezed when Felix shoved his sword hilt into his gut. _“Felix!”_

“Stop saying idiotic things like that and you’ll have far less bruises,” Felix replied tersly, back to folding his arms as if nothing had happened.

“You’re just cranky because you have to leave your cute schoolboy crush behind,” Sylvain grumbled, rubbing at his stomach. 

When Felix actually _growled,_ Dimitri held up a hand. “That’s enough, both of you,” he said sternly. “I don’t want any blood shed in this monastery. We’re on sacred ground.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Sylvain. “You would do well to remember that.”

“All right, all right, hint taken.” Sylvain sighed as he rested his hands on his hips. “I really do want to stick around, if only to see how bad your flirting is gonna be, but I can’t disobey the old man.” Dimitri nodded somberly in agreement, and Sylvain patted his shoulder. “Just don’t go giving her any daggers, okay? If you can only follow _one_ bit of advice from me, do not do that.” 

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Dimitri sighed. _Though, the nun we met in the market did say that she would appreciate such a gift…_ Besides, Byleth was a genius with a blade. Maybe she would be more receptive—

“Dimitri, did I not just say to _not_ buy the woman a dagger? Felix, he’s not even listening to me!”

“Good, he’s wisened up and joined the rest of us.” 

“Felix!”

Dimitri chuckled. “I will miss you, both of you.” He paused, turning to look at Felix. “Please, give Rodrigue my apologies. I did not plan on him remaining regent for so long.”

Felix snorted. “He won’t accept any apology. He’ll probably burst into tears when he hears you’re actually getting married.” Then he relaxed, letting go of the hilt of his sword. “We’ll be fine, boar. As ridiculous as this wedding is, at least it’s happening.”

That, at the very least, was true. Dimitri smiled. “You both have my thanks. If there’s anything you need—”

“Messenger hawk. We got you. And same for you.” Sylvain sighed with a dramatic flair. “Enjoy your stay, Your Majesty. Wish it was me getting to flirt with the smoking hot Archbishop’s heir, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.” 

“No, they most certainly cannot.” 

With a few hugs and more lighthearted teases, Felix and Sylvain left Dimitri to stare at the blank wall of his new room for the next six weeks. 

_I can’t believe this is happening. I’m getting married in six weeks._ Byleth had spoken so casually about it, but was a marriage between them even possible on such short notice? Though he’d been just a boy at the time, his father’s wedding to his stepmother had taken months upon months of preparation. Goddess, would he need a new outfit? His set of armor? He’d have to send for crowns for the both of them, if he was to coronate Byleth as his queen directly after the ceremony.

His queen.

Byleth was going to be _his queen._

And though his stomach filled with butterflies at just the idea, his heart fluttered just as much. Already he thought of her, dressed in the livery of Faerghus, furs and rich blue fabrics and a sword in her hand, riding into battle. Or in one of the gowns that noblewomen favored, but not the “puffball” dresses as Sylvain called them. Byleth was more elegant than that; he could see her wearing something much more streamlined, sleek and tailored and clinging to her body… her curvy, _beautiful_ body.

He flushed as he remembered Byleth cleaning up the mess he’d made last night at their dinner — and though her dress had been perfectly chaste he’d still ogled her like a scoundrel as she bent over, her ample bosom on perfect display right before his eyes. And it certainly was ample. What would she look like— 

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. He was not going to do this. They’d _talked_ about this: about expectations and intercourse and how he would _not_ force himself upon her. He would not become his uncle, chasing after a woman simply because she had an incredible physique. He could not. Byleth had agreed to marry him, to help him save Faerghus, and this was how he rewarded her bravery and sacrifice?

_It’s what you want, though, isn’t it? You disgust me, my son. A king lives only to serve his people, and now you are already thinking only of yourself._

_Filthy. That’s what you are. Disgusting._

_You are an embarrassment to your father’s name. A disgrace. She’d be better off with an actual beast instead of you — at least she’d know what she was getting herself into._

_And you are still no closer to helping us. Will lusting over a woman save us, Dimitri? Will glutting yourself obtain our vengeance?_

A knock came at his door, and he bolted upright, forcing his hands down from his face. Trying to calm his breathing and his racing heart, he took his time going to the door. _Stay calm,_ he ordered himself, ignoring the pounding in his chest as he eased the door open. 

He’d expected Sylvain or Felix or Dedue there, returning for some lost item or to remind him of something, but instead he found the same small nun with the green curls from the marketplace two days prior. “Good morning, Your Majesty!” she greeted cheerily, bobbing down into a simple curtsey — the display of respect was innocent enough, but his stomach soured at it, considering his boorish thoughts just moments ago. The last thing he deserved was respect.

“Good morning,” he replied, pushing down the dark thoughts. “Er, may I help you?”

“Oh, no. Precisely the opposite.” The nun smiled. “My name is Flayn, Your Majesty — I’m a cousin of Lady Byleth.” 

He blinked. “Oh. Forgive me, my lady. I did not know that By— that Lady Byleth had a cousin.” He supposed he could see the family resemblance: Flayn had similar hair, though hers was a darker shade of green than Byleth’s soft mint. The softness of their faces also matched, though Byleth had a more defined nose.

“Oh, no need to be so formal around me! Is it not common to refer to your betrothed by just their name?” 

He winced. “Ah, I apologize. I meant no offense, my lady.”

Flayn laughed. “Please, that is quite enough. You may call me just Flayn; we will be family soon enough.” 

“Flayn, then.” It was a strange name — Adrestrian, perhaps? “May I ask why you’re here?”

“Of course! Byleth told me to find you.” 

_Damn._ He swallowed thickly, his gaze flitting from Byleth’s young cousin to the ground. Though meeting with his fiancee was nerve-wracking under the best of circumstances, the thought of facing her so soon when he’d just fantasized about her physical appearance…

_You don’t deserve this marriage. You don’t deserve her._

“I am afraid it is unfortunate news.” Flayn smiled sadly. “Due to business with my brother, she cannot meet with you in the morning as she planned.”

“Oh.” Despite his relief he also felt the sting of disappointment, though he hardly deserved it. “I… I see.”

“She is, however, happy to meet you again for dinner,” Flayn said. “In the meantime, I am to show you around the monastery and answer any questions you may have.”

“That’s very kind of you, Flayn,” he said, smiling. “I actually attended the Officer’s Academy five years ago, but it has been a long time since I’ve walked the grounds.”

“Then I will be happy to give you a tour!” She actually clapped in her excitement, and it was hard to resist her cheerful mood; somehow his dark thoughts receded as Flayn grinned up at him. “Let us begin right away! They are serving poached cod in the dining hall for lunch — we can include that as part of our tour route!”

Smiling faintly despite himself, Dimitri allowed her to guide her out of his room, closing the door and locking it with the key one of the monks had given him. _Byleth’s family certainly is quite odd._ An archbishop with eternal youth, a young energetic cousin, and her intimidating father…

These next six weeks would at the very least be entertaining.

* * *

“You do realize that you are asking for what is completely _impossible,”_ Seteth said dryly, giving Byleth one of his strongest “dear Goddess why?” faces. His hands were clasped firmly on his desk, resting over a thick stack of paperwork. As Grandmother’s effective second in command, he administrated both the day to day affairs of Garreg Mach and the Officer’s Academy, which would begin again in a few days.

And Byleth had just dumped a massive assignment on his shoulders.

“Six weeks is what Dimitri and I have agreed on,” Byleth said firmly. “I wouldn’t make you perform the impossible, Seteth.”

“A wedding of this magnitude? Byleth, a wedding of the scale befitting a union between the King of Faerghus and your station would take, at minimum, a _year’s_ worth of preparation!” Seteth rubbed his forehead. “Not to mention the invitations we must send out, the disruption to the academic activities at the Officer’s Academy, the fact that we _just concluded_ a massive festival— Byleth, your dress alone would take six months, not six weeks!”

“Okay,” Byleth said softly, resting her folded hands on the desk. “I am… aware that this is going to be difficult, Uncle. But surely our wedding doesn’t have to be as extravagant as all that. Neither I nor Dimitri expect a lavish celebration. We simply want to work on improving the lives of Faerghus’s citizens as quickly as we can.”

“Your expectations, unfortunately, are not what I’m worried about,” Seteth grumbled. “Trust me, if this was to be a wedding between you and one of the knights, or even one of the cardinals, we could in theory dredge up something acceptable in six weeks. But you are marrying a _king,_ Byleth. And you are Rhea’s scion, her heir in all but name: such a union between church and state is perhaps the largest event of the decade, if not the century. The nobility of all three countries are going to expect an event that reflects such significance.”

She bit her lip. “I… see.”

“And while your reasons for this ghastly timetable are noble, there will be others who see more… impure motives for marrying so quickly,” Seteth added, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Byleth frowned. “Like what?”

“Byleth,” Seteth said wearily, and her mood soured — he took that tone when she missed something completely obvious, something she should have known already. “An accelerated wedding schedule usually only means one thing: the couple is trying to hide something. Something that would be extremely… problematic if it were to be discovered before the wedding.” He gave a pointed glare to her stomach, and she blinked.

_Oh._

“I hadn’t met Dimitri before the Millennial Ball,” she protested. “And Dimitri is an honorable man.” His… strong reaction to her bringing up sexual relations, as well as their discussion, told her everything she needed to know about Dimitri’s regard to her virtue. “He wouldn’t get me pregnant before the wedding, Uncle.” _To be honest, he probably won’t get me pregnant after. Not for a while._

“As I’ve told you, His Majesty’s reputation even in Faerghus is not strong,” Seteth said quietly. “From what you and Jeralt have told me, I trust the man — at least in the matters of keeping your propriety intact before the wedding. But I know these humans, Byleth, perhaps better than Rhea does. They assume the worst of matters, even if the evidence does not match up.” 

“Then let them assume,” Byleth said quietly. “They will be proven wrong regardless. As for wedding preparations, if they truly need to be as extravagant as you say, then we will simply have to compromise in some matters. The nobility can stay in inns provided by the town. I can have one of my gowns altered for the wedding dress.” When Seteth opened his mouth to protest, she added, “If funds are low, then I will use my inheritance to pay for the rest.”

For a long moment he just stared at her with a cocked eyebrow.

Then, with a sigh, he actually smiled. “I won’t change your mind on this, will you?”

“No.”

“You and Jeralt are quite similar,” he murmured. “Stubborn as mules when you dig your heels in.” Before she could protest, he raised a hand. “Very well. I will do my best to get things done, but don’t think that you’re not going to work for this wedding. I need a full guest list by the end of the day.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. Last night she’d discussed guests with Dimitri, and he’d given her a fairly comprehensive list for all the lords she would be required to invite, as well as those he actually wanted to attend.

Which just left her with the rest of the continent. Splendid. 

“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do,” she said slowly, “but I will need the second week of Harpstring Moon to myself.”

Seteth raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

“I plan on accompanying the supply guard to the Western Church’s center in Arianrhod,” she said. 

“There have been no supply issues with the Western Church — all humanitarian shipments have arrived safely for the past few months,” Seteth replied slowly. “Why would you need to accompany them?”

“It’s not the guards I’m concerned about.” Byleth hesitated, glancing at the door to Seteth’s office. “What I’m about to say cannot go on Church record. Not unless I’m right.”

Seteth nodded; he wouldn’t speak to Grandmother about this, then. “About what, exactly?”

“I think the Western Church is stealing money from the donations we’ve been sending them,” Byleth said quietly.

Again, Seteth raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think this?”

“Dimitri’s main concern for Faerhgus is the poverty of its citizens.” Byleth leaned forward. “Something didn’t sit right with me, so I looked at the donation records for the past few years. I didn’t notice a pattern and everything seemed to be in order. But then I realized: if the donations have been distributed, even with all the proper guidelines in place, then shouldn’t the economic status of eastern Faerghus be better than the western part? Or even just around the Western Church’s headquarters. I asked some of the knights who had visited during the last supply trip and they told me that Arianrhod looked even worse than before. The poorhouses and orphanages are packed full, and yet there are still hundreds of beggars and urchins on the streets.”

“It could be that the supplies were distributed to other areas in need,” Seteth suggested. “To simply improve the immediate surroundings of Arianrhod would defeat the purpose of our donations.”

“That’s what I’ve thought too, but Arianrhod should still be better off — what’s easier to fix, the needs right in front of you, or those that are far away?” At Seteth skeptical face, she continued. “I know it sounds… strange. But I find it far more strange that we have been throwing money at Faerghus — _millions_ of gold — and yet nothing seems to have improved in Arianrhod alone at all. At best, the funds are being mismanaged, at worst…”

Seteth nodded slowly. “I see your point. But why do you feel the need to go in person? Could you not simply assign a cardinal to inspect the Western Church?”

“If the Western Church is stealing money from the Central Church, then they could easily pay off anyone I send to investigate.” Byleth swallowed. “And as Faerghus’s future queen, I want to _do_ something, Uncle. Not just sit idly by and donate my inheritance and my dowry.” It frustrated her sometimes how slow Church tribunals went, that action wasn’t immediately taken — and this was with her grandmother, who meted out judgements quickly, if not harshly. She didn’t want to think of how long the Cardinals would take to address this problem — especially if some of them were complicit with this whole affair. “If I don’t find anything, then I was wrong.”

“And if you do find something?”

“I will wait until I have assumed the throne, then act as an envoy from the Kingdom to investigate.” Byleth clasped her hands together. “If I go in an official capacity and I’m right that they’re hiding something, then the Western Church will just cover it up. But if I go as a soldier, someone who won’t be noticed…”

“I understand.” Seteth stared at the paperwork on his desk. “You do realize, Byleth, that you are accusing an entire branch of the Church of a serious crime? If you did conduct an inquisition, it would have to be under approval from all the cardinals and Rhea herself.”

“Not if I live in Faerghus,” Byleth pointed out. “And not if I’m not acting in a Church capacity. I would simply be a queen interested in the welfare of her citizens.”

Seteth chuckled. “Already thinking like a true politician: never attacking from the front, always at an angle. I’ll admit, you have my interest. And what if you are right, and both your formal and informal investigation results in your suspicions being confirmed? What will you do then, to exact justice?”

She paused. _I hadn’t actually gotten that far._

Her uncle seemed to sense her thoughts. “Keep your suspicions quiet,” Seteth said after a pause. “And do not mention this to Rhea. She is already agitated enough as is.”

Byleth hesitated, then nodded. “How… angry is Grandmother?” she asked softly.

“Angry,” Seteth admitted. “She does not like the idea of you marrying in the first place. The timetable is much too quick for her liking as well.” That seemed to be a recurring theme. “You may also wish to speak with your betrothed. As a warning, if you will. Rhea will want to meet with him in person to discern his true intentions.”

“You mean interrogate him,” she said flatly.

Seteth shrugged, which was the only answer she’d get on the matter. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “He’s a good man.”

“From what I have seen and what you and Jeralt tell me, I agree. But Rhea has suffered much at the hands of visionary men, Byleth,” Seteth noted, his face grim. “And one way or another, King Dimitri is a visionary man.” 

Her hands tightened into fists. “He’s not mad.” 

“Even so, his policies can be construed as such by the nobility.” Seteth paused, then cleared his throat. “I know that my advice is not always welcomed, Byleth.”

She rose an eyebrow. “Are you trying to convince me to end the engagement?”

“No. I wouldn’t go that far. And frankly, I believe it’s high time you married. The circumstances aren’t ideal, but here we are.” He smiled wearily. “I do wish you happiness. As such, I want to give you a warning.” 

“All right.”

“Don’t think that things will get easier after the wedding.”

She blinked. “I… didn’t exactly think that, Uncle.”

“I believe you. But trust me, the temptation will come to put stock into that idea. Newlywed bliss is quite real. And I am aware that being kept inside Garreg Mach for most of your life has been difficult for you. If it had been up to me…” Seteth hesitated, then simply shook his head. “I digress. But Byleth, things will not get easier when you marry King Dimitri. They will only get harder. You have been kept from scrutiny and criticism in Garreg Mach — and I mean criticism stronger than just general stances against Church policy.” 

Seteth’s eyes narrowed. “When you leave this monastery, your every action and word will be analyzed. People will look to you to solve their problems, and they will expect things from you that you cannot possibly fulfill. Expectations and opinions of King Dimitri will also color opinion of you. You will be the center of attention at all times, even in private, when you think you are completely alone. Inevitably you will fail to appease someone, and you will have to suffer the anger and disappointment of others. And that isn’t even getting into the struggles a married couple faces.” He steepled his fingers. “Knowing that your road will only grow harder in the future, do you still want to marry this man?”

Byleth paused. Though her uncle could be overprotective, he didn’t exaggerate. And frankly, she hadn’t thought much of her social role in Faerghus besides being Dimitri’s wife and the possible mother of his heir. It was easy to see now why her family marveled at her decision to marry him: her life, while heavily restricted in Garreg Mach, had been relatively easy. She'd been sheltered from the consequences of her actions, protected from harm at every turn.

And frankly, she was tired of it.

Maybe it was naive of her to think that. Perhaps when she left Garreg Mach as Dimitri’s bride she’d face storms of trouble and adversity and eventually be completely overtaken and overwhelmed, battered and bruised and defeated. Yet she wanted to do more to help others than just sit and wait for the year when Rhea would allow her to take her place. She wanted to do more than turn down proposals and spar with her dad and occasionally hunt down bandits who terrorized others. She wanted to do _more._

And… she wanted more too. She wanted friends, like Dimitri had. She wanted to laugh and tease like they did with each other. She wanted to find out what Faerghus was like, what they ate there, what they wore and said and did. 

She wanted to know Dimitri. Know why he was so shy, why he had the strength of ten men yet held her hand so gently. Curiosity wasn’t the sturdiest foundation for a relationship, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to _know._

Perhaps because she knew that the more she found out about him, the more she’d like him.

So, when she looked at Seteth, she felt entirely certain. “Yes,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I do want to marry him.”

“Good.” Seteth looked stern, but she could see the softness in his eyes. “Hold onto that conviction, Byleth. It will serve you well when things do not turn out the way you expect.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, I want the guest list finished by the seventh evening bell.”

“Yes, Uncle.” 

She could hear his chuckle as she left, murmuring something about young love and determination. Anyone else would have flushed, but she instead found herself pensive. She wasn’t in love with Dimitri. She hardly knew him. But… the idea of loving someone … It was a foreign concept, yet appealing — like what she’d heard of Dadgan cuisine from Shamir.

 _First things first. Take care of that guest list._

These next six weeks were going to be very busy indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #RIPteacup
> 
> Okay, once again I must apologize to you all. I certainly didn’t intend for the break between chapters to go on this long, but finals wrapped up just recently so I now have a lot more free time (which has promptly been snapped up by other Dimileth fic ideas because my brain will not shut up). So if you’re still around, thank you very much for your kind words and support! Though I don’t respond to everyone’s comments (if you have a question that isn’t spoiler related, I’ll do my best to answer) I enjoy reading them all and really treasure your feedback. I hope y’all enjoyed this chapter! It is probably slightly rusty but I did my best.
> 
> Some notes:  
> Yeah, Dimitri has… very weird (and unhealthy) ideas about attraction and intimacy and sex in general, mainly due to Rufus’s spectacularly bad example (yes, you will meet Rufus - it’ll be fun, trust me) but also because… Dimitri still is struggling with what happened at Duscur. He doesn’t believe that he has the right to live for himself anymore, so anything that he perceives as selfish in any way is bad. Including being attracted to your future spouse. Coupled with his poor self esteem (and how he views himself as inherently dirty and monstrous due to… spoilers), he basically… doesn’t feel like he deserves to be happy. At all. It’s something our boy will have to work through.
> 
> Byleth’s line of reasoning for suspecting the Western Church is pretty flimsy, not gonna lie, but in truth she just has a really strong hunch/gut feeling that something shady is going down in Arianrhod (also I have no idea where the Western Church’s headquarters are, I just remember it being close to Arianrhod on the map, so if anyone knows exactly where it is, please let me know and I will go back and fix it). So based on the hunch, she’s gonna do some investigating. Is she right? We shall see…
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading! Y’all are awesome and I really appreciate the support I’m still getting, which frankly shocks me. Enjoy!


	9. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri finds himself growing closer and closer to his future wife, almost without meaning to. It's so easy to bare himself to her, frighteningly so.
> 
> Which makes her imminent departure worse.

Dimitri’s meetings with his betrothed were often quite unconventional.

Due to preparing for a wedding, Byleth had very little spare time — and Dimitri _had_ promised to assist her in preparing for the ceremony. So their meetings often overlapped with wedding preparation. This led to an uncomfortable truth that he unfortunately had to accept.

Dimitri had no idea how to plan a wedding. 

Frankly, it astounded him just how _much_ preparation went into an event like this: he and Byleth had spent over three hours choosing floral arrangements for the banquets, and the only thing that had prevented Dimitri’s spiral into utter despair was Dedue’s sage advice and assistance. And then there was the financial arrangements, the invitations which could be printed but would preferably be signed — Byleth had taken charge of that duty after he’d broken his seventh quill, to his eternal mortification — and the eternal question of “What would you prefer, Your Majesty?”

It turned out that “Anything is fine,” was not an acceptable answer.

After a week of living at Garreg Mach, Dimitri found himself unbearably restless, despite the exhaustion of assisting Byleth. How she managed to be on top of every aspect of their upcoming nuptials was beyond him — she’d never so much as raised her voice when confronted with another swatch of color palettes. He’d never known that the color blue could have over five hundred variations. 

“I believe a break would do you some good, Dimitri,” Dedue said evenly after breakfast — Byleth had dined before him, swept up in marriage business no doubt. 

Yes. A break would be wonderful indeed.

Dedue’s pursed lips told Dimitri that he hadn’t exactly been thinking of going to the monastery’s training hall. Still, a spear in his hand suited him far better than a quill, and he needed to exhaust himself physically, not mentally. 

The training hall was occupied by the time he arrived, a squadron of knights running through drills. His stomach clenched; he’d hoped the space would be unoccupied so he could practice his forms in solitude. While he enjoyed sparring with a partner far more than shadow sparring or attacking a motionless dummy, he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. For the past week he hadn’t been able to travel anywhere without curtsies or bows or salutes. 

To his surprise, the knights didn’t even turn to look at him, entirely focused on their commander: Captain Jeralt, who despite his relaxed posture at the head of the group clearly ran a tight regimen. His eyes slid over to Dimitri, who froze like a rabbit trapped in a cage, but he didn’t announce his presence. “All right, that’s enough!” Jeralt barked instead. “Free sparring for the lot of you.”

The knights collectively relaxed, chatter filling the yard as they broke off into pairs or groups. Dimitri sighed, then turned to look at Dedue. “You don’t have to be here,” he noted. “If you’d prefer to head to the greenhouse…”

“I will remain and observe,” he answered. “If you require a partner, I am happy to assist.” 

Dimitri smiled. “I think I can content myself with the training dummies well enough.” 

The weapons rack was nearby, and he paused as he looked at the lineup of lances. While most looked identical he wanted to pick one that had the most amount of wear and tear; in case he accidentally managed to break one, it wouldn’t be a significant loss.

“Here.” A lance suddenly entered his field of vision, long enough to fit his form easily. “This one should suit you well enough.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the lance as he turned to look at the knight who had assisted him. She was small, a helmet obscuring most of her face; in her free hand was a broadsword. 

Then his eye widened as he saw the flash of green eyes, the lock of mint hair that framed her cheek. “B-Byleth?” he whispered, bending over to check if it really was her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t eat with you this morning,” she said, as casually as if she weren’t dressed in light infantry armor and not wearing a helmet. “My father asked me to help demonstrate and run drills for the junior knights.” 

It had completely slipped his mind that Byleth wasn’t just the archbishop’s heir but also a fully fledged knight of Seiros. Goddess, how did she do it, balancing the two? 

“Looking for a sparring partner?” she asked.

“That would be nice, yes,” Dimitri said, idly twisting his gloved hands around the spear, the creaking of leather helping to fill the silence.

“What about your retainer?” She nodded to Dedue, who stood in the corner.

“He prefers to watch,” Dimitri explained. 

Byleth shrugged, then turned, pointing with her sword. “I like that area best. The dirt’s more sloped but looser; helps lessen the impact.” 

“Thank you.” He made his way to the spot Byleth indicated, then blinked as he saw her following him. “Is there something you needed?” he asked, confused.

“A sparring partner,” she said simply.

 _Oh._ “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly. Though he didn’t doubt that her skills were formidable — she had handled herself excellently, with poise even, against the bandits that night when they’d first met — sparring against a crest bearer, especially with the Crest of Blaiddyd, was something else entirely.

“Unless you’d rather be by yourself.” Byleth shifted into a limber stance, her sword at the ready. 

He smiled. “No, I’d rather not.”

“And _I’d_ rather you not sneaking off after I dismiss you,” an irritated voice growled. 

Dimitri whirled around to see Captain Jeralt standing there, his arms folded as he stared at them both. Byleth instantly straightened up and saluted. “Captain, sir,” she said as professionally as a member of the royal guard. “I apologize; I was simply assisting His Majesty with the training grounds.” His stomach twisted a bit as she used his title instead of his name.

Jeralt’s eyes skimmed between the two of them. “And by assist you mean getting into a full blown match with no moderator.”

Byleth dipped her head down, and Dimitri did his best not to squirm beneath Jeralt’s glare.

Then Jeralt sighed. He didn’t look pleased, but Dimitri could have sworn he saw a glint of amusement in his eye. “Well, at least your fiance here courts in the standard Faerghan way.” Dimitri flushed as he looked at Byleth, who rose her head in interest; he wouldn’t call sparring with his betrothed the “standard Faerghan way” but the idea would be downright appalling to anyone outside of the Kingdom. Jeralt himself seemed to resonate with the concept; he smiled now, raising his hand. “Best out of three. Standard rules, no handicaps,” he said. “Once you’re on the ground or have a weapon at a vital point, you lose.” His eyes narrowed. “And if I see a crest activate, the match is over. Understood?”

Dimitri nodded. Byleth responded with a simple “Yes, sir.”

Backing away until he was leaning against the wall, Jeralt lowered his hand. “Begin.”

Before he was even done speaking Byleth lunged forward, her sword thrust towards his heart. Dimitri raised an eyebrow as he blocked with the haft of his spear — he hadn’t forgotten her speed, but to try and end the match that quickly was a bold move. Slowly they circled each other, Dimitri staring at her posture: immaculate and poised, just as he expected.

This time he attacked first, a basic thrust meant to gauge her reaction time. She easily side-stepped instead of blocking with her sword, twirling on her heel like a dancer, and he nodded to himself. Her fighting style was similar to Felix, relying on evasion instead of defense. The trick then would be to catch her in a misstep — even without his crest he doubted she was stronger than he was, and if she didn’t react in time, one solid hit should ground her.

Sliding from guard stance to attack stance he moved slowly but fluidly, countering Byleth’s fast slices and stabs. It was tricky at first, especially considering the surprising amount of strength she put behind her blows, but she soon set into a rhythm: two thrusts followed by a slower sweep. Dimitri smiled, letting her press him back. One of the greatest weaknesses of an opponent wasn’t clumsiness but complacency — underestimating your enemy was one of the fastest ways to get yourself killed.

So, when Byleth was in the middle of her fifth sweep, Dimitri twisted to the side, bringing his spear around in a powerful blow—

— that Byleth promptly _leapt over._

He stared in shock as her whole body twisted in midair, a corkscrew jump over his spear as it passed harmlessly below. Without time to course correct, all he could do was watch with a slack jaw as her sword hit his knee, a stinging blow that sent him crashing to the ground. Catching himself with his hand, he looked up to see Byleth’s sword at his throat, her eyes sparkling even beneath the helmet. “Yield?” she asked evenly.

With a breathless laugh he raised his hand up, and she helped him up to his feet. “That was incredible,” he said breathlessly, shaking his leg a bit to alleviate some of the pain. 

“And reckless as hell.” Jeralt’s voice was stern but Dimitri could see the amusement on his face as Byleth quickly fell into form, her spine ramrod straight. “In a real fight you’d be dead the second your feet left the ground, kid.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Jeralt sighed. “Round two out of three, if it pleases His Majesty. And this time with no flashy moves. You’re not here to show off, kid.”

Byleth’s face grew solemn as she released Dimitri’s hand, falling into the same stance as before, blade to the side of her cheek as her legs bent. This time when Jeralt declared the start of the match she waited for him to strike first, watching Dimitri like a hawk.

When he struck, again Byleth sidestepped his blows, but he could see a change in her demeanour. She was no longer playful, no colorful twists and turns. Instead all her moves were efficient, calculated. He narrowed his eye, trying to discern what was the best approach. Whenever he tried to land a definitive blow, she would simply evade, then wait for his next attack. Never attacking outright herself.

 _Taunting me? Or simply waiting for something?_ He had no idea what, but he smiled as he looked at her. If she would let him attack first, then this gave him a bit of room to improvise.

Instead of the simple one-two thrusts and sweeps he had used before, he fell into one of his more advanced forms: a flurry of blows, followed by sweeps and thrusts. This time Byleth actually engaged, her sword deflecting his spearhead with quick taps to just barely avoid a blow. Dimitri’s smile widened as he pressed forward, continuing through the form. The world disappeared around him as he focused on just the spear and his opponent, the contact between their weapons, the sweat starting to form on his brow.

She was quick, that was certain, but he kept going, not letting up as they began to cross the whole of the training ground. Soon her sword was trying to slip past _his_ defenses, an attempt to force him back, but he kept his head this time, carefully repelling each attack. With a heavy swing that she had to twist to avoid, he saw his opening — her flank was open, and he thrust forward, grinning as wood struck cloth. Byleth let out a quiet gasp, a loss of air, and he didn’t let up, sweeping with his leg to get her off her feet. 

But she was a tricky opponent, using her sword blade to balance, knocking away his spear as she retreated. They were both breathing heavily now, her hair starting to fall out from her helmet. 

_Don’t let up._ With a shout he stabbed at her again, two quick jabs that she had to duck to avoid. His blood felt on fire as he twisted, swinging at her shoulder. She took the hit this time, falling to a knee but using the move to pivot to his side. A curse slipped from his lips as he saw her sword come for his side; he had no choice but to take the hit, swinging at her to give him some space.

They both stood in place for a moment, panting as they looked at each other. Byleth’s stamina certainly was impressive — though she’d taken two direct blows she was still on her feet, but he could see fatigue eating at her. 

It was time to end this match. 

Another shout passed his lips as he lunged towards her, keeping his body low as he went for her legs. Byleth for the first time actually yelped — a quiet but surprised sound — as she once again had to twist out of the way. Dimitri gritted his teeth; her damn speed was tough to counter. He needed to land another solid blow.

So, twisting around to build up momentum, he roared as he brought his lance down in a cleaving blow — then stared in horror as glowing lines hovered in the air in front of his eye, forming a deeply familiar sigil.

_No, no, no, please!_

His lance only hit packed dirt, but with such force that the spearhead promptly exploded, wood and clods of soil flying up from the ground. Dimitri’s heart raced as he looked up to find Byleth — the relief that spread through his body once he saw her unharmed was so strong he dropped the remains of the spear in his hand.

Which was good because Jeralt was storming towards them, his own very _real_ spear in hand. “I said _no crests!”_ he bellowed, and the training ground grew as silent as a tomb as Dimitri looked at his fast approaching doom. Dedue moved to intercept but Dimitri frantically shook his head — the last thing he wanted was for his friend to get involved in this mess he’d made.

His undeserved savior was, of all people, Byleth; before Jeralt could gut him with his spear she stood in front of him, her sword tip resting on the ground. “Sir.” Byleth’s voice was somehow steady. “It was an accident. Everything’s fine.”

Jeralt didn’t move. He also didn’t stop glaring at Dimitri, nor did he lower his spear.

“Sir.”

Dimitri couldn’t breathe for a moment.

Then Byleth lifted her sword, gently pushing the lance in Jeralt’s hands down towards the ground, a facsimile of rest stance. “Dad,” she said, her voice much softer. “It was an accident. I’m okay.” 

“I truly didn’t intend for my crest to activate.” Dimitri swallowed, lowering his hands. “I… I can’t begin to apologize.”

“So you _don’t_ try and murder all your sparring partners?” Jeralt asked flatly; Dimitri cringed, looking at the ground. He was right — if that blow had connected with Byleth, it would have instantly shattered bones.

_How could I lose control so quickly?_

“Dad, that’s enough.” Byleth sighed, her gloved hand wrapping around Dimitri’s wrist. “Come on.” He mutely followed her as she walked to the edge of the sparring ground, picking up a ladle from the water barrel. Taking a sip, she suddenly took off the helmet, revealing a messy bun piled loosely atop her head. Using another ladleful of water she doused her neck, sighing as she handed the ladle to him. “It’s spring water,” she said quietly, replacing the helmet. “Should cool you off pretty good.”

“Thank you.” The water was cool indeed, with a mild sweetness he hadn’t expected. Most of the water in Fhirdiad had a slightly bitter taste from the ground water — the plumbing in the city relied on the water deposits beneath instead of drawing from springs. Mimicking Byleth he splashed some water on his neck, replacing the ladle as gently as he could. 

“Are you truly all right, Your Majesty?” Dimitri turned to see Dedue standing there, his face grim. 

“I’m fine, honestly.” A lump rose in his throat; he hadn’t been the one on the opposite end of a crest of Blaiddyd. “Are you… all right, Byleth?” he asked quietly.

She nodded casually, as if nothing had gone amiss; Dimitri let out a heavy breath, leaning against the wall. “I truly am sorry,” he murmured.

“As far as I understand, a crest activation is an event that can seldom be controlled,” Dedue said. 

Byleth nodded again. “A major crest gives greater control over when it activates, but your crest is minor, isn’t it, Dimitri?” 

“Yes.” _And even a minor crest is far more trouble than it should be._ His hands clenched into fists. “Regardless, I never should have put you in such a position.”

“I disagree. It was a good match.” Byleth looked up at him, her eyes calm beneath her helmet. “I knew you were strong before, but seeing that translate to combat was a very worthwhile experience. How long have you been training with lances?”

“Ever since I could hold one,” Dimitri admitted. “Members of the Royal Family are expected to be competent both in strategy and combat on the battlefield.” 

“It’s a good thing we won’t be on opposite sides of that battlefield, then.” Byleth gave one of her tiny smiles. “I might have a few bruises by tomorrow.”

Dimitri flushed, mortified; how could he have ever thought that sparring with his _fiancee_ was a good idea? “I-I can’t express how sorry—”

Byleth held up her hand. “Trust me, Dimitri, everything’s fine. That wasn’t the worst match I’ve been through. That award goes to my father.” 

“Captain Jeralt does seem to train his troops with great efficiency,” Dedue noted. “The Knights of Seiros present themselves well, and not just in combat.”

Sighing heavily, Dimitri shook his head. “Regardless, I am sorry, Byleth,” he said softly. 

“What for? Giving me a challenge? The only thing you need to apologize for is breaking that spear — the quartermaster won’t be happy.” Before he could say anything, she smiled again, this time with a twinkle in her eye. “Just another thing I’ll tab to wedding expenses.” 

He couldn’t help but chuckle despite everything, though it came out as a strange whine instead. Dedue rose an eyebrow, clearly missing the exchange, though he did offer his own smile. 

“I do… have a question though.” Byleth looked up at him, though she didn’t meet his eye; Dimitri braced himself for the inevitable question. “Your stances are amazingly accurate considering your current condition. How did you train to overcome that?”

He hadn’t exactly expected her to ask that, though he was grateful for her avoidance of the obvious. “It wasn’t easy,” he confessed. “I still wouldn’t say that my reflexes are on the level of what they were three years ago.” Byleth said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “I forced myself to adjust by sparring every day, sometimes late into the evening. Dedue had to put up with my impatience and stubbornness.”

“It was not nearly as bad as His Majesty makes it seem,” Dedue protested gently. “Though I did have to convince him to take breaks.” 

“I see.” Byleth glanced to the side, then stepped away from the water barrel. “Excuse me. There’s something I need to attend to.”

Dimitri blinked, then turned to Dedue, who merely offered his own befuddled stare in return. Perhaps she had Church duties to perform? Though she hadn’t left the training yard — he could see her standing in a corner, as if waiting for something.

“You did not tell her how you lost her eye,” Dedue noted.

Dimitri stared at the ground as he leaned against the wall. “She didn’t ask.”

“One day she will.” Dedue folded his arms behind his back, standing at attention as though he were on military parade instead of in a conversation with his friend. “Will you wait until she asks, then?”

Dimitri frowned. “I see no point in giving her reason to doubt our marriage before we’re even wed, Dedue.”

“I doubt that would happen.” Dedue’s voice was calm and level, but his gaze was heavy. “There is no shame in admitting mistakes of the past.”

“It was no simple mistake,” Dimitri muttered. He’d lost his right eye, after all. But more than that… Felix had told him how he’d acted. He couldn’t remember himself — there was only a blank space from the start of the skirmish until the fit of madness had passed and he’d found himself screaming in pain and clutching his face. From what Felix had yelled at him, he didn’t want to remember what had happened.

He knew the rumors that were spread about him: the mad king, the one-eyed lunatic. If Byleth didn’t bring it up, he could pretend that she knew nothing about it, and that she was marrying a man with a whole mind. 

_But she’s not. You’re not whole, are you?_

_Nearly killing your wife before the wedding day. What a stellar move._ Glenn’s voice was lazy, taunting. _You—_

“—hold it like this.” 

Dimitri paused, looking over to see Byleth, still wearing her helmet, motioning with her practice sword to a young boy. He looked to be around the age of twelve, holding his own sword, almost too large for him though it was a shortsword. The other soldiers chuckled as they saw the two of them in their own corner of the practice yard, but Dimitri looked on in silence as Byleth bent down to readjust the young boy’s grip. “There, you don’t want to overlap your hands. Now, let’s try a swing, shall we?”

The boy nodded, mimicking Byleth’s stance as best he could. Dimitri smiled as he swung too hard, but Byleth gently guided him on how to properly use the sword. “Not too much force now. Let the weight of the sword work for you.”

“It’s funny how much difference a helmet makes.”

Dimitri jumped as he saw Jeralt leaning on the wall just a meter away, watching Byleth instruct. “None of those kids would dare come close to her if she was dressed like Rhea’s heir,” he noted. “But put her in a helmet and guard outfit and she’s not Lady Byleth anymore, but Sir Byleth the knight. It’s funny how kids work like that.” He said nothing about how the sparring match between Dimitri and Byleth had ended; in fact the Blade Breaker looked calm, pensive. Dedue stiffened, but Dimitri tried to see it as the older man offering him an olive branch.

“Do they know?” Dimitri asked, looking up at Jeralt.

“Hell, everyone knows at this point. We just don’t talk about it is all.” Jeralt folded his arms, sighing as he leaned back. “It’s her way of being normal. Or well, that’s what she thinks. In Garreg Mach it’s impossible for her to be normal.”

A lump rose in Dimitri’s throat. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll take her with me on missions, when she’s free. None of the other knights so much as look at her. Mixture of being Rhea’s heir and my kid.” Jeralt’s eyes softened as he looked at Byleth; Dimitri watched as the boy’s strokes grew cleaner, Byleth’s sword clacking against his as she taught him how to block. “About the only people who treat her normally are the kids. And that’s only when she’s got the helmet on.”

Dimitri clasped his hands together, watching as the knights either petered out of the training ground or continued to whisper to each other as Byleth stayed behind. “I had no idea,” he murmured. “That she was so…”

“Separate? Put on a pedestal? Lonely?” Jeralt’s face grew weary. “Kid’s never been allowed to have real friends, hardly. When you’re the archbishop’s chosen, you’re above all that sort of stuff, according to them.” The darkness in Jeralt’s eyes let Dimitri know exactly what he thought about that. “It’s why I put her into the knights. Not just so she could defend herself, but so she could find out what it was like to actually be around people who weren’t her family.” He huffed out a bitter chuckle. “Didn’t work.”

A lump rose in Dimitri’s throat. He knew what it was like to be considered separate, high above. Dedue also appeared pensive, his posture relaxing.

“That’s why you better do your damned hardest to take care of her,” Jeralt said gruffly, and Dimitri winced as he got the full force of the Blade Breaker’s glare. “She’s a clever woman, but you know how nobility are. She needs someone at her back, someone she can depend on.” His eyes narrowed. “Can you be that person?”

“I…” It wasn’t a question he felt he could answer with full confidence. “I want to be,” he answered quietly.

“Then your accident earlier was an accident.” Jeralt’s glare eased up a bit, though he still had plenty of venom in his eye. “I told you to not make me regret my decision to trust you.”

“You did.” Dimitri balled his hands in his fists to stop them from trembling. He didn’t know why, but earning Jeralt’s approval was important to him. By virtue of being Byleth’s father, he would become part of his family, though they would rarely see each other after the wedding. He’d already alienated his living blood. With Jeralt, he wanted to at least try to get the man to like him. 

“Your forms are good,” Jeralt said, leaning back against the wall; with his glare gone Dimitri felt like a weight had been removed from his chest. “Though your wind form needs work. You’re leaving yourself too exposed on your right side. Can’t entirely blame you.”

 _Wind form?_ “You mean the advanced evade and attack stance?”

“Whatever.” Jeralt waved a hand. “I’m guessing Gustave Dominic taught you?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Jeralt snorted. “That old bastard. One of these days I’ll send him packing back to Fhirdiad.” 

“You know Gustave?” The news from Annette that her father had abandoned their house had deeply troubled him; he’d been serious when he’d told her that he would write her a letter of recommendation to get her to Garreg Mach faster.

“Course I know him. I’m his damn superior officer.” Jeralt sighed. “I can’t make him leave, but I’m tempted to beat his ass back to his family. Either way, he taught you well. Did he help you retrain after…” He gestured vaguely to Dimitri’s face, and he understood. “You get that in Duscur?”

Dedue tensed, and Dimitri felt his own muscles clench. “No, sir. Two years ago. And I retrained myself.”

“Huh.” Jeralt actually looked impressed. “Work on improving your crest control and you’d be a senior knight.” He paused, then rested his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder in a way that was almost… paternal. “Listen. I get how it goes,” he said quietly. “Your head slipping out of your body, falling back on instinct. That’s why I didn’t ignore Byleth and shove my spear up your ass earlier. But you better be damn careful that something like that doesn’t happen again around her, or so help me goddess you _will_ taste steel.”

Swallowing thickly, Dimitri chose to just nod.

“Good.” Jeralt clapped his shoulder then left, moving back to the knights who had stayed behind, presumably for extra training. Dimitri let out a held breath, tempted to remove his gloves and wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. Yet despite the threats, he somehow felt closer to the captain than he had before. It was a perplexing contradiction.

“Captain Jeralt is an… interesting man,” Dedue finally said.

Dimitri could only nod in agreement, his eye already searching for Byleth. She was still working with the boy, though a small crowd of children in similar tunics and dresses watched eagerly as she demonstrated a more advanced parry. He smiled as some of the children clapped, others hollering in delight as she danced her way around the boy, a flashy slice grabbing their attention without being too much of a challenge to her much younger opponent.

_You made the right decision, coming here._

It was hard to believe that he was looking at his future wife. Before Rodrigue put him up to coming here and vying for Lady Eisner’s hand, he hadn’t even considered marriage for himself beyond the appeal of having a mirror image of his father’s happiness. Inwardly he knew that was a fanciful dream, that most likely his bride would be arranged and presented to him to solidify the kingdom, and they would conceive an heir and that would be that.

Yet with Byleth, there was the allure of something more. 

He didn’t know whether that enraptured him or terrified him.

* * *

When Dimitri arrived in the dining hall, Byleth nearly impaled his lip by shoving a fork at it. “Here, taste this,” she said, already downing her next skewer of meat.

“I, er… what is this, exactly?” Dimitri asked.

“Pickled rabbit,” she explained after swallowing, making a note on the sheet inside the folder she held. “It’s a rare delicacy, supposedly.” She watched as he took a bite then swallowed. “How does it taste?”

Dimitri paused, looking at the fork. “I… good?”

She stared at him for a few moments with a raised eyebrow; she’d found the meat chewy and bitter, but if he liked it then she supposed it was a possibility for an appetizer.

“Is it not… Do you not like it?” he asked, then stared past her as if seeing all the sample trays for the first time. “What is all of this?”

“Taste testing,” Byleth said, picking up a small spoon — the next dish was onion gratin soup. “For the wedding feast. The cooks will need time to gather all the ingredients, so planning the menu is one of the top priorities.”

“Oh, I see.” Dimitri strangely began to fidget. “Are you sure you need my help?”

“Well, it’s your wedding too,” she noted, swallowing the spoonful of soup. The flavor was impossibly strong and she had to force herself to swallow. “If you can’t even enjoy the food at your own wedding, what’s the point?”

He gave her a smile, but it felt awkward and mismatched, like a doll haphazardly stitched up. 

“Anyway, there’s about fifty dishes and we have to narrow it down to five courses, not including appetizers.” She handed him a clipboard with all the dishes labeled. “Just mark which ones you like and we’ll compare our notes so that we both get some of our favorites.”

Gingerly he took his own menu sheet, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the dishes listed. “You said there were _fifty_ dishes?”

“Yes, and that’s after I got rid of the seafood dishes,” Byleth noted, tasting the next soup in line — Gautier cheese gratin. The flavor was still strong, but she liked it better than the onion soup. 

“Why is that?” Dimitri asked, joining her side and taking a bite of some Gronder meat skewers.

“You don’t like seafood.” The soup was a traditional Faerghan dish, so she assumed that Dimitri would like it. The cheesy verona stew was more to her tastes, but that had fish in it. 

“O-Oh, I…” She blinked as Dimitri discarded his empty skewer. “I don’t dislike it. What makes you think I do?”

“You didn’t eat the clams our first dinner together.” She blinked as for some reason Dimitri blushed. _What did I say this time?_ “I’m sorry if you didn’t like the soup. I didn’t know you didn’t like seafood dishes.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” He coughed, looking at the dishes neatly laid on one of the banquet tables. “I actually like some dishes with fish in them.”

“So it’s just shellfish you don’t like?” Well, that introduced a whole new host of options. While Byleth didn’t crave fish as much as Flayn did, she liked a lot of the seafood fishes the cooks at the monastery prepared. 

“No.” Dimitri sighed. “It’s because of my crest.”

 _What?_ “Your crest makes you allergic to shellfish?” she asked. She’d heard far stranger things from Catherine. Crests mainly were used on the battlefield, but each had a peculiar trait that tended to manifest in bearers. Maybe Dimitri’s was an allergy?

“Oh, no, no, no,” he said, smiling as he shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s my strength.” The mirth slowly left him as he leaned against the banquet table. “I have a hard time handling… delicate things. As you saw a few days ago, even weapons shatter in my hands. I didn’t want to break a dish trying to open a clam.” A dark shadow passed over his face. “Except it didn’t matter in the end.”

Byleth wanted to protest that he’d only broken a teacup, but the darkness that lingered in his eyes made her hesitate. _I suppose if my strength was so much that I couldn’t even eat normally, I’d be angry too._

“In that case, I’ll ask the cooks to put seafood back on the menu.” She paused. “Most of the meats will be cut up already, and the salads should be fine.” Dessert _could_ be a problem, but most cakes were soft enough that he shouldn’t have to exert any extra pressure on the silverware.

“What do you mean?” Dimitri cocked his head.

“Just thinking of dishes that will be easy for you to handle,” Byleth said, looking down at the menu in her hand. “I’ll cross out the buttered lobster — you’d need to take the shell off that one.” Her fiance blushed, and she paused. Maybe she’d given him the wrong idea. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re going to break everything,” she said, her voice softer. “It’s just that normally wedding days are very stressful. I don’t want you to have to worry about breaking anything in front of anyone.”

Unfortunately that only made his blush worse, and he stared down at his lap for a moment before speaking. “That is truly kind of you.”

“I really didn’t mean to insult you.” Goddess, she was painfully bad at conversations like these. She just didn’t know enough about Dimitri: what embarrassed him, what was painful or sensitive to talk about. It was another stinging reminder that her time here at Garreg Mach had stunted some of her growth — she could handle political negotiations just fine, but being informal with her own future husband was far harder than it should be.

“I’m not insulted.” He smiled, looking down at her from behind his fringe. She noticed that his hair was down today, feathery strands hanging in his face. That didn’t bother him? 

“Good. Then we’ve still got forty nine dishes to go, and not much time.” She handed him his own spoonful of Gautier cheese gratin. “While not all of the dishes have to be from Faerghus, I think it would be good to have at least one course represent the kingdom. What do you think?”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” He swallowed the Gautier cheese soup, nodding for a bit before giving her back the spoon. “I like this one.”

“All right.” Marking it down on her list she decided to skip the next few bowls of soup. “We can put that down for the soup course. For the salad, do you have a preference of dressing?”

“No, not really.” For some reason he looked uncomfortable again as they moved down the table. “I, er… Are you absolutely sure that you need my input? Frankly I’m not much of a culinary expert — I’m sure Dedue would be a wonderful help to you, and I completely trust his tastes.”

She frowned, looking at him. “What’s the problem?”

Dimitri paused, yet did not say anything as he looked down at the dishes crammed onto the long table. 

“If this really is unpleasant for you, you don’t have to be here,” she said quietly, though she had no idea why a taste test of all things would make Dimitri upset. One would think that having access to so many different dishes would be exciting, at the very least. 

Or maybe it was a different problem entirely. She sighed, looking down at her clipboard. “Look, I know that spending time together lately has been somewhat of a challenge. And that if we _do_ see each other, it’s to plan the wedding. I’m afraid I can’t change much of that, but if I’ve made you uncomfortable or if you feel like you’re being neglected—”

“Please, no,” Dimitri said quickly, shaking his head. Byleth watched as his gold locks swished around his face. “It’s not that. I understand that your time is limited. You’ve been very gracious to make time for me when you can.”

“Then what’s the problem?” she asked, sitting down on the table’s bench. Was he just overwhelmed with the amount of dishes? Or maybe he was a picky eater? Maybe it was an awkward thing for him, having Byleth watch him like a hawk as he tried out dish after dish. Did he not like people watching him eat? She understood that, in a way.

“I can’t taste,” Dimitri said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

 _Wait, what?_ Byleth stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, unsure that she’d heard him correctly. “You… can’t taste?” she asked slowly. 

Dimitri clasped his hands in his lap for a moment, fiddling with his fingers before he sat down opposite her. “Ever since the Tragedy…” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “The Tragedy of Duscur, I haven’t been able to taste food. It has no flavor for me. If you blindfolded me and gave me mashed potatoes or sweet pudding, I couldn’t tell you the difference.”

“That’s… terrible,” Byleth murmured, her eyes wide as she stared at Dimitri. Ever since Duscur — that meant effectively six years with no sense of taste. No ability to tell if food was delicious or spoiled, no way to get satisfaction out of eating besides the nutritional value and filling your stomach. _That’s why he didn’t think the pickled rabbit tasted bad. He literally couldn’t taste the bitterness._ A morbid thought passed through her head: Dimitri would have no way of telling if a dish was poisoned by taste. But even without that, the thought of never again being able to enjoy a good cut of steak or a hearty stew made her stomach churn despite all the food around them.

“How do you stay sane?” she asked.

Dimitri blinked. “I, well… It’s not as terrible as all that. I can remember how certain foods from my childhood tasted, and I tend to enjoy those more. And foods with different textures are more… interesting, I suppose is the right word, to eat.” Despite the optimism of his words he still looked grim. “In the end, I suppose it’s not a heavy punishment to carry.”

 _Punishment?_ She had no idea what he meant by that, but she pushed that thought from her mind. “So you can gain some satisfaction from eating,” she said quietly. 

“Yes, but…” He didn’t flush when he looked at her, but his face was still caught in the rictus of embarrassment. “You can see why I am no help in matters like these. I’ve eaten dishes that have made people sick with no ill effect.” He gave her a weak smile. “Dedue puts spices in some of my meals to help me feel something when I eat, but it doesn’t particularly help much.”

“I see,” Byleth murmured.

“I’m sorry that I can’t be of much help,” Dimitri said again. “As I said, Dedue would be the person to ask his opinion on dishes. He’s an excellent cook with terrific taste.”

“Actually, you’re being very helpful,” Byleth said, flipping over the sheet on her clipboard and taking out her charcoal. “What are your favorite dishes, then? The ones you still enjoy?”

“Oh, well…” Dimitri cleared his throat. “Most of them are childhood favorites. The Gautier cheese gratin is wonderful, as well as the onion gratin.” Byleth resisted the urge to make a face at that last one. “Most meats are fine, though I like the toughness of jerky. In Faerghus we would fry it again in butter.” He smiled, much more warmly this time. “Dedue told me that was sort of defeating the purpose of jerky, but I loved it.”

“He’s not wrong, but we actually have a dish here at the monastery that’s similar,” Byleth noted, looking up from her notes. “Go on.”

“The cheesy verona stew is also wonderful. And as for desserts… I always had a fondness for sweet buns. The cinnamon filling was perfect for warming you up in winter, but the icing softened the burn of the spices. Oh, and saghert and cream.” He chuckled to himself. “When I was a boy, Ingrid and Felix and Sylvain came to visit, and Sylvain convinced me to find us a snack. I went to the icebox in the kitchens and found a whole flat of saghert and cream. We split it between the four of us and ate the whole thing; it’s a miracle none of us got sick.” He smiled bashfully at her. “When Stepmother found out, she was furious. Apparently she’d asked the cooks to make her some for tea with her friend, but we’d gone and eaten the whole thing.”

“What did she do?” Byleth asked, smiling at the thought of a young Dimitri — who she couldn’t imagine without the eyepatch — begging his stepmother for forgiveness, sweet cream still on his lips.

“Ah, well…” Dimitri’s smile faded, and something in Byleth’s stomach twisted as all the mirth left his face. “I’m sure she gave me a stern lecture and a boxing on the ears, then told me to never eat sweets again.”

She frowned. “That seems harsh for a young boy.”

“Well, I _had_ ruined her teatime,” Dimitri said, as if that justified everything. “Father still snuck me some cakes and sweet buns from time to time.”

 _Is that… normal?_ Dad had never really disciplined her as a child, claiming that she never got up to any funny business. When she did do something wrong she’d only gotten a stern lecture, if not from Dad then from Seteth. They told her to ruminate on the consequences of her actions. Hitting a boy and banning him from eating sweets entirely seemed… excessive to her.

 _Maybe she was just concerned about his health. Or he was exaggerating._ She decided to let it go. “Well, at least you’re king now,” she said. “So you can eat sweets whenever you like. I won’t be a nagging wife, I promise.”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t quite whole; his eyes remained dark. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Are those it, then?” Byleth asked, looking over her list. “Cheesy verona stew, Gautier cheese gratin, onion gratin…” She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “Dimitri, half of these dishes involve cheese or cream, and the other half are sweets.”

Unsurprisingly Dimitri flushed. “Yes, well, dairy is quite common in Faerghus. A-And these are my childhood favorites; I was a young boy at the time.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I reverse what I said earlier. As your wife I’ll have to make sure that you get a balanced diet, even if you can’t exactly enjoy it.” She pointed her charcoal stick at him jokingly. “More leafy greens on your plate, Your Majesty.”

“As you command, Your Grace,” he replied, mockingly bowing, and she chuckled as she returned to her list. 

“Well, that helps things out a lot. We’ll have Gautier cheese gratin for the soup course, as well as saghert and cream for the dessert course. I think you’ll like the sauteed jerky — that can work as an appetizer. That just leaves salad and the main entree.” She smiled as she looked up from her clipboard. “I’ll save those as a surprise.”

His returning smile was warm. “I can’t wait. But…” He was back to looking hesitant. “You don’t have to choose these dishes just because I’ll like them. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but the guests…”

“I mean, we are the guests of honor, right?” She set down her charcoal. “We’re only getting married once.” _I hope._ “We might as well make the feast something to enjoy. If it’s the memories that make those dishes enjoyable, then that’s good enough for me.” She hesitated, then added, “And hopefully this will be another good memory to add to the rest.” 

Dimitri looked like she’d either given him a brand new silver lance or killed a puppy right in front of him. It bothered her she couldn’t tell which. 

Yet when he spoke, his voice was the softest she’d ever heard it. “Thank you, Byleth,” he whispered, and for some reason she felt her throat growing tight as she saw the raw emotion in his face. “I… Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.” And really, it wasn’t. “But you’re sure you like seafood?” One of her favorite meals was a lemon and parmesan goddess messenger dish — it was just fancy enough to have as the main dish of a wedding feast, and fish flaked. Dimitri wouldn’t have to worry about breaking something eating it.

“Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know how badly it would taste anyway,” Dimitri pointed out. Despite how grim his words seemed, she caught the glint of humor in his eye. “And you are the guest of honor, after all.” 

She smiled back. “Well, thank you anyway. You just saved us a few hours of taste testing and fighting over the menu.” Then she frowned. “It’s a shame though. The cooks made all this food…”

“Perhaps we could share it with the rest of the monastery?” Dimitri suggested, rising from the table. “I hardly think we could have eaten it all. You said there were fifty dishes?”

“Yes.” Grabbing a Gronder meat skewer, she popped it into her mouth, barely pausing to chew, before adding, “Maybe _you_ couldn’t eat it all.” 

Dimitri stared at her wide eyed.

 _Oh. Right._ With a large swallow she managed to clear her mouth. “I, er. I eat a lot,” she explained, looking down at the empty skewer. “My father says I got it from his side of the family.” Though she’d never know if he was telling her the truth about that — she and her father were the last of the Eisners. Of course, her appetite was far from what she’d heard was proper and decent for noblewomen. Dad had told her that it was rubbish expecting a woman to starve herself to maintain her figure, but she was pretty sure that most noblewomen couldn’t clear five plates at a feast anyway.

Then Dimitri smiled, an actual real smile that showed teeth and reached his eyes. “I may just have to write to the cooks in Fhirdiad,” he said, grinning as he leaned against the table. “They’ll need some preparation before we arrive.”

“Tell them to stock up on leafy greens too,” she replied, and he actually laughed — not the soft chuckle she’d heard in their first meeting, but a full laugh. Short and loud, yet not a bark. 

If she had to describe the sound, she’d use the word sunshine.

“I’ll do that,” he promised. “In the meantime, are you really going to eat all this food?”

“Oh, of course not.” She grabbed one of the plates from the end of the table, going down the line to pluck some more samples from the dishes. “We were planning on letting the kids from the orphanage eat the leftovers anyway. I’m just getting my favorites.” She gestured with a skewer to the full table. “You better get what you want now before it’s gone.” 

Dimitri smiled, then picked up a plate as well. “Should I fear the children’s appetite or yours more?”

She smiled back, popping a piece of noa fruit into her mouth. “Definitely mine.”

* * *

It was the few seconds after waking from the nightmare that were the worst.

In those few seconds, Dimitri couldn’t tell what was real and what was a dream — and the splitting headache didn’t help matters. His tongue could still taste blood and smoke, his nose could still smell burning flesh, his ears could still hear the screams of the dead.

After the first few seconds he could see clearly again, but his body still ached from tensing for a blow that would never come. Grimacing after unclenching his hands, Dimitri forced himself to sit up on the edge of the bed. Deep breaths, four seconds in, four seconds out. He had to repeat this until the weight on his chest lifted and he could freely move. Grimacing as he clutched his forehead, he fought back the splitting pain to climb to his feet. Lying in bed and listening to the whispers of the dead drove him to dress himself despite his weariness and the hour. He needed to get out of this room, move, escape the darkness.

His door creaked loudly as he left the room, and he winced as he looked to the door that led to Dedue’s chamber. He did his best to spare him from these nights where he grew restless; he deserved his rest, and taking him away from sleep just so he wouldn’t be alone with his dark thoughts was too selfish. Making sure the laces of his eyepatch were tight he made his way towards the training grounds. Perhaps if he distracted himself he could salvage some sleep for the rest of the night.

Strangely the training hall was still open, though he was certain that most facilities had been locked when he’d attended the officer’s academy as a student. There were no lanterns or torches lit, which suggested no groundskeeper or quartermaster inspecting the hall — and who would do such a thing so late at night? 

When he heard muted thumps coming from the training dummies, he paused as he spotted a shadowed silhouette training, their sword repeatedly battering the stuffed cloth. After a particularly savage beating they stopped. Dimitri cocked his head as he drew closer.

Then stared wide-eyed as Byleth turned to wipe her forehead.

She paused halfway in the motion, her green eyes strangely luminous in the dark as she looked at him. He felt a blush creep up his neck, as if he’d been caught spying on her — and perhaps he had. He hadn’t announced his presence after all.

And her attire was entirely different from anything he’d seen her in: instead of the simple yet elegant dresses or the padded leather armor that concealed her form, she wore a high collared shirt with no sleeves, bearing her arms — and strained tight across her breasts. Her legs were covered, but the material hugged them tightly, concealing practically nothing before tucking into her boots. 

_Goddess preserve me._ He swallowed hard, looking at her face. She didn’t seem surprised that he was here — or if she was, she didn’t show it. 

“I, er…” He cringed, his voice echoing in the silent courtyard. “I can leave, if you’d…” He felt he _should_ leave; the risk of him staring indecently at her rose the longer he stayed. 

The goddess had no mercy for him tonight, however. Byleth crossed the distance between them, resting her sword on her shoulder; he felt his throat grow dry as he noticed the sway of her breasts as she walked.

 _How disgusting of you,_ Stepmother hissed in his ear. _Ogling your bride? What will you do next, bend her over the weapons rack?_

Shame flooded him as he looked at the ground, but Byleth’s voice haunted his ears: “Can’t sleep?”

“No,” he whispered, folding his hands together. “I should go.”

“Stay.” Her voice was soft, entreating. “I need a partner anyway.”

“Is that wise?” he asked, risking a glance at her; her face was even, almost impassive. “Considering last time?”

“I trust you,” she said simply. “It was an accident.” She paused, then added, “I don’t want to be alone right now either.”

No other words could have convinced him to stay better than those. 

Before he could do so himself, she jogged to the weapon’s rack — he swiftly averted his gaze as he realized just how those leggings of hers hugged her thighs and… the space above them. _Living up to the “boar” title, aren’t we?_ Glenn mused dryly. 

_I expect better than this, my son,_ Lambert intoned heavily. Dimitri squeezed his eye shut, nodding. He should be better; he was a king, a principled man if not a decent one. 

“Here.” Byleth presented him with one of the longer lances, and he nodded his thanks as he took it. Yet she didn’t release her grip, staring with her large eyes at his hands. “You’re not wearing gloves,” she noted.

A chill went down his spine as he looked at his hands. Though he wore gauntlets and gloves for protecting his hands, he didn’t need to do so: his hands were calloused from years of training with the spear, large and thick and indelicate. 

They were also covered in scars. 

Byleth released one hand from the haft of the lance, and Dimitri watched in silence as it hovered over his, her fingertips just a hair’s breadth away from his skin. Or was she touching it? Her hand settled against his knuckles, but he could barely feel the pressure. It would be worse if she touched his palm.

“Are these from…?” Her voice trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

“Yes.” The admission felt thick and heavy on his tongue. “I… It was when the pogrom started. I stopped the assault, but they’d already set fire to the city.” Again. It had burned the first time too; he could still smell the smoke, taste the ashes. “Dedue was pinned beneath a beam that caught fire. I lifted it off him, but the damage…”

Byleth’s fingers ran over the back of his hand. They were so tiny compared to his own, so delicate. “You were lucky,” she murmured. “You could have lost your hands.”

“It would not have been too heavy a price to pay,” he said softly. “I would do it again, if I could.” He smiled bitterly. “You now see why I cannot control my strength.”

“They’re numb?” When he nodded her lips pursed. “I’m more impressed, actually,” she confessed, and he stared in stupefaction as she looked up at him. “If you can’t feel then it would be all too easy to break things.” Gently she tugged his hand away from the spear, and his breath caught in his throat as she interlaced his fingers with his. “Can you feel this?” she asked.

“Yes,” he whispered, though it was only a slight pressure — he couldn’t tell how hard she squeezed, nor the texture — with his fingers he could, but his palms were the most dead. “Your hands…” He flushed. “They’re warm.”

Byleth smiled slightly, though it was a melancholy look. Before he could ask what troubled her she released his grip. “Shall we?” she asked, taking her sword stance.

He nodded, lifting his lance.

Despite the hour, Byleth’s movements didn’t seem affected by fatigue in the slightest — and neither was her speed. Dimitri quickly found himself going on the defensive, having to repel her light yet quick attacks before he could get in a single thrust. Though she wasn’t overtly testing his defenses, he could feel her focus shift to that. Her attacks grew lighter and faster, not meant to deal any damage but simply to try and slip past him. 

It was an exercise that surprisingly pushed him to the limits of his reflexes: keeping Byleth from landing a strike, yet not retaliating himself. He welcomed the strain, embraced it. He would not let his mind wander or slip away from him this time; he concentrated solely on keeping the tip of her blade away from his throat.

After a few minutes, he could see Byleth tiring, her thrusts and swipes growing sloppier. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, and he had to block more and more aggressive attempts to break past his guard. Finally with a rough swing, her sword bounced off his lance with enough force to nearly fly out of her hand and she stopped, bending over to catch her breath. Alarm filled him at the motion. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking for wounds even though he’d never attempted to make a blow.

She nodded, wiping her forehead. “Fine,” she finally said, her voice breathless. “Just… been going at it for a while.”

She _had_ been attacking those practice dummies with fervor when he’d arrived. “Then perhaps a break would do some good?” He barely felt tired, but his arms appreciated resting the butt of his lance on the ground. 

Byleth nodded, straightening up with a few pops of her back; Dimitri winced sympathetically as she twisted and turned, then flushed again as the motion drew his eye to her chest. “Your defenses are solid,” she said as they walked to a nearby bench, her swordpoint close to dragging on the ground. “You do a great job covering your right side.”

 _Perhaps when I’m not being so aggressive._ He either overcompensated or didn’t cover his right side enough, based on the feedback he’d gotten over the years. “Your swordwork is impressive as well,” he said quietly. “I forgot to mention that in our last bout.”

“Understandable.” With mutual groans and sighs they eased themselves onto the bench — he was still sore from his nightmares, his jaw still too tight along with his lower back. Byleth rested her elbows on her thighs, her sword dangling from her fingers. Dimitri found himself staring at her despite the chastisement of the dead, his eye skimming the curve of her spine. Her arms, finally bare to him, were toned yet not overly muscular. From what he could glimpse of her skin, she was unmarked by scars, unlike his own mottled hands and flesh. It felt symbolic to him, a reflection of what lay inside, that her skin bore no flaws while his was twisted and torn.

“I’m leaving,” Byleth said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Dimitri blinked in confusion. “Then… good night?”

She let out a huff of air — he didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sound of exasperation. “No, I mean— I’m not leaving right now.”

“Oh.” 

“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” she said, twisting her practice sword in her lap. “I just don’t want you to be surprised when I’m gone for a week.”

He frowned. “Where are you going?” 

“Arianrhod.”

Now he was downright mystified. “Why would you need to go to the Kingdom?” A horrific thought struck him. “Has something happened? Do I need to accompany you?” It had been years since a rebellion, but would dissidents see his absence from Faerghus as a chance to stir up anarchy and insurrection again? 

“No.” Byleth’s hand gently rested on his forearm, and his breathing slowed as she looked up at him. Her green eyes were perfectly calm, reflecting only the silver moonlight. “Everything is fine, Dimitri. It’s just a routine trip.” 

_Just a routine trip._ That eased the panic that chewed up his insides, but her statement only brought up another question. “You go to Arianrhod often?” Why would the Archbishop’s heir need to visit the Silver Maiden?

“It’s the headquarters of the Western Church,” she explained, leaning back on her hands as she looked at the training yard. “Every month there’s a shipment of relief funds and supplies that is delivered there, and they need guards to accompany it. I’m not going as Lady Eisner, but as Sir Byleth.”

“I see,” he replied slowly. 

Except he didn’t see at all. While she was technically a knight of Seiros, surely her father wouldn’t sign her up for a mere convoy escort weeks before her own wedding? It didn’t make any sense — there were plenty of other guards to do such things. And frankly, the idea of Byleth leaving him at Garreg Mach, if only for a week, made him deeply nervous.

 _She’s lying to you,_ Stepmother whispered. _She cannot trust you because you deserve no trust._

 _She’s repulsed by you. Leaving for a week? She’s probably planning on running away from this sham of a wedding,_ Glenn added. _Why else would she abandon you just a few weeks before?_

 _You don’t deserve her. Finally she has recognized what we have known all along._ Lambert’s nails dug into his shoulder, and he winced. _That you are worthless._

“Dimitri?”

He snapped up straight in an instant, as if Byleth’s voice was a bucket of cold water dumped over his skin. She cocked her head at him, her large eyes softer now as she looked at him. “You okay?” she asked. “I didn’t hit your head, did I?”

“No.” He swallowed, fingers curling into his trousers as he tried to regain control of himself. To lapse in front of his future wife, especially after such a long stretch of peace, was pitiful. “I’m fine, I just…” His eye flitted to the side to look at her, then nervously darted back down to the dirt below. “Why now? If you need a break from the planning for the ceremony, I understand, but why leave for Arianrhod?” He’d been there before as a younger king, part of his tour around Faerghus to bolster morale. There was hardly anything there besides the fortress, and if Byleth wasn’t lying about being a convoy guard she wouldn’t have much leisure time anyway. 

Byleth didn’t speak for a long moment, and Dimitri’s head sank. _Why pester her for trying to gain a moment of peace, away from you?_ “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have pried.” Slowly he began to stand, back aching as he moved to replace his practice spear and bid her goodnight.

“I think the Western Church is hiding something.” 

He paused.

Something warm wrapped around his hand, and he stared in surprise as he saw Byleth tugging him back, guiding him to sit down. She frowned, but not at him — at least, that was what he hoped. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to give you any more stress,” she said quietly. “And I could be wrong. That’s why I’m leaving: to find out if I’m right or not.”

“About what?” he asked, looking in concern as Byleth didn’t meet his eyes. 

“You said you wanted to marry me because the Church would provide additional funds and troops to aid Faerghus and reduce its poverty, right?” 

Dimitri winced. “I… yes. That wasn’t the only reason…”

“But the main reason.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to call off the wedding. This has turned out far better than anything I expected anyway.” 

He stared at her in surprise. “It has?” They’d hardly seen each other for the past two weeks — it was a good day if he had an hour of Byleth’s time. 

“Trust me. You should have heard the other proposals I got that night.” She pulled her hand away, and some utterly childish part of him missed its warmth. “Anyway, back to the Western Church. What you told me about Faerghus made me think. Arianrhod gets donations and supplies from the Central Church every month. The causes for underlying poverty in the Kingdom can’t be fixed with just money, but it still helps. We send millions of gold we get from Church donations to Faerghus every year, so why is the poverty still so bad?” Her gaze grew sharp and piercing as she looked up at him. “I think the Western Church is doing something with the money. Either they’re not distributing it properly or…”

The insinuation horrified him, but the worst part about it was that it made perfect sense. “Or they’re taking it for themselves.” Dimitri frowned as he glared at the ground, his grip around the practice spear tightening. “I can’t believe I didn’t even consider such a thing.” 

“I don’t blame you. Everyone knows about the charity work and donations, but the actual amounts sent are a carefully guarded secret.” Byleth paused, then rested her hand on his arm again. “It’s not your fault, Dimitri.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered, rubbing at his forehead. “To think that the Church itself.. And they might have been doing this for _years.”_ When he’d visited Arianrhod, he’d never even thought anything was amiss with the Western Church. Though his faith in the goddess was weak, he’d never considered that Her institution itself could be anything less than noble. “I should have questioned them before.”

“I mean, legally you can’t,” Byleth said quietly. “Like I said, the donation amounts are kept secret from everyone. Even kings.” 

Her words made perfect sense, but that still didn’t remove the knot of guilt in his stomach. “Let me come with you,” he said, looking up at her. “I can help you get to the bottom of this.” 

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dimitri,” she said quietly. “There’s a reason I’m going as a soldier. If there’s really something going on in Arianrhod, showing up with all the pomp and circumstance out of the blue might do more harm than good.”

He winced. “You’re right.” Yet his hands ached as they gripped the spear, his muscles in his forearms tensing. It was downright humiliating how useless he was — his ignorance of the Western Church’s thievery was bad enough, but now he couldn’t even do anything about it without making it worse. _No wonder she doesn’t want you to come along,_ Glenn taunted. _She already knows just how pathetic you are._

“Hey.” 

Byleth’s grip on his forearm tightened, if only for a second. Instead of a tired look, she actually smiled. It felt like a soothing balm on his aching limbs, and he found himself relaxing against the wall. “I actually need you to do something for me,” she said softly. “Here, at Garreg Mach.”

“What could I do here?” he asked, confused.

“I’ve told Seteth about my suspicions, as well as my father. But not Rhea,” she confessed. 

“Rhea is the archbishop,” he said slowly. “Why would you not tell her that one of her subordinates could be stealing money from the church?”

“Because if you haven’t noticed, Grandmother is not exactly in a good mood about this wedding business,” Byleth said with a sigh, releasing his arm to rub at her forehead. “I know, I should tell her. I will later, if I’m right about all of this. But she’d only get upset and use it as an excuse to stall the wedding, which would slow down any investigation to a halt. After the wedding, that’s when we can tell her.” She gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I need you to cover for me while I’m gone. Tell Rhea that you had absolutely no idea that I was leaving, and that I just want a break from all the wedding planning to play knight one last time before I get married. Dad and Seteth will say the same thing, so she shouldn’t question you too much. But regardless, she’ll try to corner you after I’m gone, probably.” 

The thought of the Archbishop herself cornering him made his stomach roil. “Did I do something?” he asked. “To offend her?”

Byleth sighed. “No. Well, not directly. It’s not you, honest. Grandmother never really intended for me to marry at all. If I did, it would be someone she handpicked. Probably one of the cardinals.”

“Then… she does not approve of our marriage?” he asked softly.

“No, but it doesn’t matter.” Byleth’s smile was weary, but at least it reached her eyes this time. “I’ll marry who I choose, and I chose you. She can’t take that away from me without looking like a tyrant.”

A lump rose in his throat at her words, even as he felt a thrill. _She chose me._ It still filled him with wonder, realizing that of all the people in Fódlan, she chose to marry him — a man who couldn’t offer her hardly anything in return. 

Yet he’d been ignorant as to the repercussions of that choice. “I didn’t know this would affect your family so much,” he murmured. 

“It’s just Rhea,” Byleth said, leaning back against the wall with him, looking up at the stars. “And she’ll come around. It’ll just take a while.” She smiled, bringing her feet up onto the bench and spreading her knees; he blushed as the position gave him a very good view of her thighs, and… He swallowed, looking at the sky with her. “I know Grandmother can be scary, but she can’t actually do anything to you. So, can you cover for me?”

“Of course.” He could endure anyone’s wrath, so long as Byleth’s investigation actually bore fruit. “Though I should warn you, I’m a rather poor liar.”

“I know.” 

He flushed, and Byleth gave another huffing sound — this one sounded like more of a laugh. “It’s okay. You don’t really have to lie. Just… stall, I guess. And if she thinks that you’re using me as a spy or something, tell her no. That’s not a lie, right?”

“I suppose not.” He hesitated, then looked at her directly, staring into her eyes. “In return, can you promise me something?”

“Sure.” 

“Stay safe,” he said softly. 

She blinked. “It’s just a supply run.”

“Yes, but…” He bit his lip, feeling foolish. How could he tell her that already he was scared that something horrible would happen to her, just because she’d grown close to him? And Arianrhod was close to Duscur. If something happened, and he wasn’t there…

“I will.” Her fingers slid against his, and he felt warm as they interlaced with his, her grip soft yet firm. “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” He smiled as she twirled the practice sword in her free hand. “Hopefully I’m wrong about all of this.” 

“Is it rude to admit that I agree?” he asked.

“No.” His heart skipped a beat as she gave his hand a squeeze, then crawled off the bench. “I’m going to bed,” she said matter of factly, releasing his hand. 

“I should do the same.” Their sparring hadn’t exhausted him to the point of falling asleep again, and Byleth’s suspicions about the Western Church — and the news of her impending departure — didn’t soothe his worries. But he knew that his body needed rest, even if he couldn’t sleep. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Byleth said, spinning her sword almost absentmindedly in her hand. 

“What for?” he asked, standing up from the bench; his muscles groaned in protest.

“I thought you’d be mad at me for not telling you about this right away,” she admitted. 

_Oh._ “I could never be mad at you, Byleth.” He smiled. “The fact that you’re already doing so much to help Faerghus… it’s beyond anything I’d ever dreamed of. I should be thanking you.”

Her own returning smile was soft, but it was as if a blanket had been wrapped around his shoulders, like he’d stepped into a warm sitting room after travelling in the snow. “You’re welcome.”

Then his whole body froze as she wrapped her arms around him, giving him a soft squeeze before letting go. “I hope you sleep better,” she said, resting her practice sword on her shoulder. “Good night.”

To his eternal embarrassment he couldn’t even say anything as she walked away, humming an unfamiliar tune as she replaced her equipment then left the training ground. All he could think of, besides trying to remember how to breathe properly, was how warm and soft she’d felt against him in that brief moment of contact. How her arms fit perfectly around his waist, her cheek against his heart. Had she heard it race when she hugged him?

 _How pathetic,_ Father growled. _She barely touches you and you instantly lose focus._

Dimitri swallowed, quickly moving to replace the practice spear. Father was right; he shouldn’t get so easily distracted with just one gesture of affection. It had just been a motion of sympathy anyway; it didn’t truly mean anything. Making his way back to his quarters, however, he found himself folding his arms tightly across his chest, as if that could keep her warmth against him for just a moment longer.

* * *

When Dimitri woke up, the chill in Fhirdiad penetrated him to his bones, yet he didn’t mind. 

Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and he rubbed his eyes at the bright light — usually it brought stinging pain to his sensitive eyes, especially the bad one, but there was no pain. Everything was calm. 

For once, everything was calm.

Stretching his body out, feeling the pleasant burn of muscles waking up, he paused as he heard humming. Looking for the source, he smiled as he saw the open doors leading to his small balcony. Silently creeping out of bed he drew closer to the sound, like a little boy sneaking up on one of the birds in the courtyard. Yet the humming was far sweeter than birdsong — it sounded like one of the lullabies his stepmother would sing to him when he was younger. 

“Now comes the storm, but you’ll be warm, my arms are tight around you… Now rest your head upon my bed and sleep, my darli—” 

When the song stopped, he knew he’d been caught. 

“And who is this?” a soft voice asked, its owner turning to look at him. Her gauzy dress hid none of her curves and muscular planes, its fabric so sheer he could see her milky skin beneath. “An intruder on my balcony?” 

He crept forward, still hesitant. It was his balcony, his castle, his kingdom, yet he felt as if he was the intruder here. 

Yet when Byleth held out her hand, he took it instantly. 

“Come here, where I can see you,” she whispered, that soft voice of hers enveloping him like a warm blanket. He obeyed silently, inching into the light slowly, waiting for it to burn him. She only smiled, that tiny little quirk of her lips that could melt through snow. “No need to be shy,” she soothed. “I’ve seen it all already.”

_What?_

When he looked down, his heart leapt into his throat.

He was completely naked.

Dimitri felt far less serene when he woke up this time.

There was no headache, which unsettled him almost as much as the dream — every time he woke up from a nightmare, his head felt like it would split apart. Yet now he felt… well, not exactly well rested, but better than he had in a few days. Certainly better than when he’d woken just a few hours before.

Which was a problem. Because he had just dreamed about himself naked in front of Byleth, who hadn’t exactly been fully clothed herself. A flush crept up his cheeks just thinking about that sheer gauzy dress, hardly covering up anything at all. When he looked down, he found his sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed, all the blankets on the floor. Had he kicked them off while he was sleeping?

 _That explains it then. I simply dreamed that I was naked because I was cold during the night. That… that’s normal._ There was no need for concern. And it was just a dream. Not a reflection of reality whatsoever. He was still wearing his smallclothes, after all.

“Your Majesty?”

The sudden knock and Dedue’s voice at his door nearly sent him flying out of bed — as it were, he barely managed to stay on the mattress. “Y-Yes?” He winced as the word came out as more of a feeble croak than an answer.

“Are you feeling well? It is past noon.”

_Past noon already?!_

“I-I’m fine!” Quickly he scrambled to get his bedding back on the mattress, grunting in annoyance as the sheets landed on top of the blankets instead of the other way around. “I just didn’t sleep well last night!” 

The door cracked open, revealing a Dedue that looked suspiciously like he was about to laugh; his lips were quirked up into a tiny smile that actually threatened to reveal teeth. “I saved some breakfast for you,” he said, nodding towards the tray he held in his hands. “Would you like assist—”

“No, thank you.” Dimitri quickly took the tray. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Dedue closed the door, leaving Dimitri in the chaos that was his quarters and his thoughts. Dimitri stared at the tray, then groaned as he placed it on the bed and sank to the floor, holding his head in his hands. There was no headache to distract him from his thoughts, which inevitably came back to his dream like the tide pulling him to sea.

_I’m a mess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing fight scenes that involve choreography. So I plan out this chapter to have two sparring matches. Go figure.
> 
> Yeah, you get a whole lot of Dimitri this chapter. I feel a little bad that Byleth gets a bit shafted in the word count, but she's also got some cool sleuthing to do next chapter so I hope it evens out. Poor Dimitri's gonna have a fun time covering for her with Rhea, haha...
> 
> I wonder why Byleth's up so late training. Could it be that she also has some issues sleeping?
> 
> Thanks once again for putting up with the erratic upload schedule. This chapter ended up being 22 and a half pages in Google Docs, so hopefully that makes up for the long wait.


	10. Investigations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth can be a slippery thing. As Byleth leaves Garreg Mach in search of it, Dimitri is advised to cling to it. 
> 
> CW: Minor ableism from side characters, references to racial tensions

_Today’s the day._

A hairpin dangled from her lips as Byleth finished pulling her hair back into a passable bun. Flayn was much better at hair than she was, but she really only needed to tie it back for combat. That, and to not draw too much attention to herself. The longer she could pass as just another face in the crowd, the better. 

_I wonder if he feels the same way,_ she mused as she tucked the pin into her hair, examining her appearance in the mirror. _A king can’t exactly go anywhere he wants._ Dimitri didn’t seem the type of man to like displays of reverence or fealty. He dressed plainly, entered and exited rooms without fanfare, and she’d heard Dedue refer to him by his first name. That was almost unheard of for nobility: a servant addressing his master by his name instead of his title.

Dimitri did a lot of unheard-of things, things she suspected would make any court have a conniption fit. She liked that about him. 

Wiping the remaining sleep from her eyes, Byleth fastened her sword — a simple iron blade, not too heavy or cumbersome — to her belt then placed her helmet on her head. Checking in the mirror for any locks of mint hair that escaped, she opened her door and began the short walk to the monastery gates. She’d be given her overnight pack when the knights convened.

The sun was barely over the horizon, and the company would depart in an hour. Dad had taken care of all the paperwork ensuring the convoy captain wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at her presence, and Grandmother at this time led prayers to welcome the new day in the cathedral. Her departure should go smoothly.

Then again, that wasn’t the difficult part about this journey.

Though the hour was early, the sun rising earlier and earlier each day as it approached the summer solstice. Nuns, cooks, and children alike ran about their paths, Byleth weaving through the familiar faces easily enough. When she dressed as a knight the crowds parted for her, but there were no head bows or curtseys. She was just another soldier, another face in the crowd, ready to escort a convoy to Arianrhod. There was nothing special about her.

At least, she could pretend that. 

Ducking into the kitchens to swipe breakfast — an egg and bacon quiche, which she stuffed into her mouth in two bites — she took the side path around the fishing pond to the monastery’s front gates. The company she would join hadn’t assembled yet, and only a few merchants were present, some complaining about the morning chill as they set up their wares.

Her eyebrow raised as she found not one, but three figures waiting for her in the plaza.

“Get something to eat, kid?” Jeralt asked as she approached. At his side stood Dimitri, his cheeks a bit pink from the brisk air, and behind him hovered Dedue. Neither of the men had even bothered with cloaks, Dimitri in a simple tunic and breeches while Dedue wore armor with a long scarf; it looked soft and comfortable, bearing a braided pattern that she’d seen a few times. 

She nodded in answer to Jeralt’s question. 

“Good.” He chuckled, setting a hand on her head; her eyes narrowed as he mussed it around a bit. “My girl, playing hookey just a few weeks before her wedding. Finally coming into your rebellious streak, are you?”

Smiling faintly, she just shook her head. This was hardly a rebellious streak, merely her doing her future duty. Though she supposed with the timing, she did look a bit like a wife running away from her marriage. Hopefully Dimitri wouldn’t think that.

“And investigating the whole damn Western Church… You know, it’s usually the man that goes hunting before the wedding day,” Jeralt noted with a smile. 

She blinked. “Hunting?”

“Oh, it’s just an old wedding tradition in Faerghus.” Dimitri perked up at that, his eye rooted on Jeralt. “While you’re courting, the man goes off hunting and kills the biggest, strongest animal he can find to prove that he’s a good hunter and the family won’t go hungry. Then the woman takes the pelt and meat and makes a meal and some coats to prove the same thing. It’s all old ritual stuff; hardly anyone does it anymore.” 

“I wasn’t aware that you knew the old traditions, Sir Jeralt,” Dimitri said, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “It’s been decades since anyone in the royal family courted in that manner.”

Jeralt rolled his eyes. “Well, how romantic of them.” He shot Byleth a wry smile. “Going off and hunting out rats. You’ll make a fine husband for His Majesty here.” Dimitri flushed beet red, and Byleth smiled as Jeralt chuckled. “You’ll have to bring back a trophy to prove your conquest.”

“I’ll steal the bishop’s hat,” Byleth promised dryly. 

Jeralt barked out a laugh while Dimitri coughed — it sounded something like a laugh, but maybe he was just mortified at her irreverence. Dedue merely smiled. “But you be careful,” Jeralt cautioned her, once more taking on the persona of stern, protective father. “This isn’t a bandit raid, kid. You know how slimy these types can get. They’re like snakes, biting you when you’re not looking.”

“I won’t put myself into anything dangerous,” she said calmly. That wasn’t her intention either. This was reconnaissance, plain and simple.

“Good.” Jeralt sighed. “You’re the lucky one, you know. Rhea’s gonna be breathing fire the second she finds out you’re gone.” _Literally,_ his tone implied.

Byleth nodded, smiling weakly as she looked at Dimitri. He didn’t seem worried or unduly concerned — that made _her_ concerned. “Thank you,” she said. “For covering for me.”

“If your suspicions are confirmed, then it’s no trouble at all,” Dimitri reassured, returning her awkward smile with his own soft one. “And as you’ve said, I have diplomatic immunity. I’ll be just fine here.”

Both she and Jeralt stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the color to drain from his face.

“Your Majesty,” Jeralt finally said, clasping his shoulder — Byleth smiled at the friendly contact. “You and I are going to need to talk.”

“It will be fine,” Byleth said quickly. “It’s just that you’ll need to be… careful around Grandmother.” She’d probably given him the wrong impression with their midnight spar a few nights ago: while Dimitri was physically safe enough, Grandmother knew how to manipulate a person like how a blacksmith knew how to forge swords: warping and twisting words and feelings until the opponent confessed or went along with her demands. 

“I’ll teach him, kid,” Jeralt said, giving Dimitri’s shoulder a firm shake; she smiled as Dimitri wobbled with the motion, clearly unused to her father’s more “hands on” approach. “You just worry about finding out what the hell Geurin’s up to and staying out of trouble.”

“I believe the company captain has arrived,” Dedue announced quietly.

Byleth turned to see the captain in the middle of the square, his bright armor perfectly polished and practically blinding in the sunrise. To her dismay — but not her surprise — it wasn’t Alois or Catherine. Alois was on family leave, while Catherine had taken a separate mission that was more prominent. She’d be alone on this trip.

It was an unsettling feeling. 

_You’ll have to get used to it. When you live in Faerghus, Dad and Seteth and Alois won’t be there either._ Letting out a heavy breath, she shifted her helmet in the crook of her arm. “I suppose I should report,” she said softly. “Thank you, all of you, for meeting me out here.”

Jeralt’s arms spread wide. “You come back in one piece, you hear?” he said, giving her a firm squeeze that lifted her off the ground. She smiled at the display of affection; her father’s bear hugs were one of her favorite things about him. “If you don’t, just make sure the face is okay, all right? Can’t cover that one up for a wedding.”

She chuckled, smacking his shoulder, then looked at Dimitri as Jeralt set her down. He gave her a small smile. “Thank you for doing this,” he said softly. “It means a great deal to me.”

“It was what we agreed on.” After all, if she was marrying him to help Faerghus, it would be a bit facetious to wait for the wedding to start that endeavor.

For some reason his smile faded. “I… see.” Then his eye slid to her armor. “Arianrhod can still be rather chilly this time of year. Did you pack a cloak?”

“It comes standard issue,” she said. “I’ll be fine, Dimitri. Is there anything you’d like me to do while I’m in Arianrhod?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. 

“Then I should go.” Byleth extended her arm, and when Dimitri reached to shake it, she chuckled and wrapped her arm around his waist instead. “I’ll be back in a few days,” she promised, her cheek against his chest. 

Slowly, like he was unused to the feeling, his arms came to wrap around her in return. It wasn’t like Jeralt’s hug, big and ferocious. Yet it was warm, his chin resting on her head as he held her for a long moment. 

A very long moment. Long enough that when Jeralt cleared his throat sharply, Dimitri jumped as if he’d fallen asleep. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered out. “I didn’t…” He coughed sheepishly. “Is it too much to ask for one thing in Arianrhod?”

She shook her head, then blinked as his hands rested on her shoulders. He gazed gravely at her, his one eye boring into her. “Stay safe,” he murmured.

Then, in a sharp swift movement, he kissed her forehead. 

Suddenly the chill of the marketplace disappeared, and she blinked as she stared up at Dimitri. His cheeks bloomed red, yet he didn’t let go of her shoulders. His eye stared softly at her, his thumb brushing her neck in a moment that felt… intimate. Like they were already married, and this was simply how he said goodbye. 

It felt warm.

“All right, that’s enough between you two,” Jeralt sighed, pulling Dimitri back. “Report to the captain — you can get all cozy when you get back.” Dimitri winced, fumbling out something that sounded like an apology as she just smiled and shook her head. At least Jeralt wasn’t threatening bodily violence on him. Their relationship was improving. 

Before she left, she shook Dedue’s hand; he looked a tad surprised at the gesture, but returned her grip with a hand clasp of his own. “Though Arianrhod isn’t in Duscur, it’s close,” she said. “I would be honored to visit it someday.” 

Dedue raised an eyebrow, then simply nodded. “May the Goddess watch over your travels,” he said solemnly. She bowed her head in thanks, then put on her helmet. Jeralt patted her on the back, while Dimitri oddly enough wouldn’t meet her gaze. His cheeks were still red.

But his fingers did brush her hand as she left, his touch fleeting yet warm.

Some of the knights had started to gather in the square as she approached the company leader. “Captain,” she said, pressing her hand to her left breast in salute. “Byleth Eisner, reporting for duty.”

The captain didn’t even glance up from his papers. “Lady Eisner, welcome; I received your transfer orders last night.” He didn’t sound too pleased about the fact. “As requested, your presence will be anonymous, as far as that is possible — you’ll also be replacing Biggs as company medic. Packs will arrive in ten minutes. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime, Your Grace.”

 _Comfortable._ When she looked at where Jeralt, Dimitri, and Dedue had been standing, they were gone. Most likely off to get breakfast. The other knights chatted with each other, some complaining about the chill, others discussing the upcoming trip. Aside from the captain, they didn’t look at her.

That was still better than the normal reaction.

Pushing down the empty feeling in her chest, she nodded and waited for the rest of the company to arrive.

* * *

“Listen,” Jeralt said, hardly sounding winded as his spear clacked against Dimitri’s. “You don’t have to do the hunting thing, Your Majesty.” 

Dimitri just shook his head, focusing on getting Jeralt’s blunted but no less dangerous spearhead out of his face. The captain fought just as well on foot as on horseback, which wasn’t a surprise considering his reputation. It felt like he was being toyed with, Jeralt’s movements relaxed and easy compared to his strained defense. 

The captain eventually let up after his blade touched Dimitri’s neck once, and Dimitri wiped his forehead as they each took a step back. “Do you believe it would be something she’d appreciate?” he asked, resting the butt of his lance on the training ground floor. 

“Probably. But are you doing this for Byleth, or for me?” Jeralt asked pointedly.

Dimitri hesitated. 

Jeralt chuckled, shaking his head. “See, now that will be the exact type of question Rhea will ask you.” He sighed, resting his lance on his shoulder. “Come on, water break. We’ve been at this for a while.” Dimitri followed Jeralt to the same water barrel he’d used with Byleth, gratefully accepting a ladle from the older captain after he’d taken a drink. 

“What do you mean, the archbishop will ask me those types of questions?” he asked after swallowing. 

“Rhea’s the type of woman to use all your words against you,” Jeralt said quietly, staring at the empty training yard — right after breakfast was when it was most abandoned. “She’ll try and get you to pause or hesitate or stumble, then she’ll walk right over you.”

Dimitri’s grasp on the spear tightened. “Byleth told me she doesn’t… approve of our relationship.”

Jeralt snorted. “Kid, _I_ hardly approve of your relationship. You two are getting married in six weeks and then taking her to the poorest kingdom in Fódlan — would you let your kid do something that crazy?” Dimitri winced; that was a fair enough point. “I get it’s for the people and all that, but frankly Byleth’s been living for the people her whole life. This is just another sacrifice in a long string of sacrifices.” 

A lump rose in Dimitri’s throat. “If there was any other way, I…”

“Forget it, Your Majesty. I trust Byleth, even if I don’t like it.” Jeralt chuckled. “I like you better than the others, anyway.” His eyes slid over to Dimitri. “As long as you don’t lose your head with her.”

Dimitri nodded quickly. 

“Anyway, with Rhea it’s best to stick with the truth. Even if the truth sounds bad at first, whatever white lie you try and use to make things sound pretty won’t work on her. She’ll just call you out for lying.”

“Byleth did say something to that effect,” Dimitri noted.

“Then stick to the truth, just like she said, kid.” Jeralt folded his arms as he leaned against the wall. “There’s not much better advice that I could give you. You’re the politician, not me.”

“Not a very good one.”

“Even better. No wonder I like you better than all the other guys who popped up that night. You don’t feel as slimy.” Dimitri smiled faintly as Jeralt huffed out a laugh. “Now, are you really going to go hunting?”

“It _is_ tradition,” Dimitri replied.

“A tradition your folks haven’t done in a hundred years. Hell, I bet no one in Faerghus has done it in a hundred years.” Jeralt sighed. “Things really have changed.”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “Then, pardon my asking, but… how do you know about such traditions, Captain Jeralt?”

“Just Jeralt.” The man sighed, rubbing at his face with a dirty hand. “You’ve earned that much. As for the tradition, my father was a knight in Faerghus. But that was a long, long time ago.” His tone practically screamed _Don’t ask about it._ “You’ve got a whole wedding to plan. You sure you want to take time to do this?”

“Most of the serious arrangements have already been made by Byleth,” Dimitri pointed out, clasping his hands in his lap as he leaned against the wall, mirroring Jeralt’s pose. “And the finer details of our contract are being outlined by my regent in Fhirdiad.” It still embarrassed him that he hadn’t even thought of a prenuptial contract, but he was glad that Rodrigue would be the one handling it — details were things that often escaped Dimitri in his rush to get things done. He hesitated, then added, “I want to do something for her.” Her words that morning disturbed him — it was like she viewed their upcoming marriage as a sacrifice or a duty, like Jeralt had said, despite their familiarity.

Jeralt smiled faintly. “Fair enough. Just don’t get too over your—”

“Your Majesty?” 

Both men turned to see Seteth approach, his customary haggard look even more pronounced as he crossed the training yard. “Your retainer told me I could find you here.”

“Is there something the matter?” Dimitri asked, straightening up instantly. “Is Dedue—”

“He is completely fine, and told me to inform you that he is currently speaking with the huntmaster,” Seteth said calmly. “I’m afraid your predicament is the one I’m worried about. Lady Rhea wishes to have tea with you.”

Dimitri blinked. “I see. I can be ready in a half hour.” 

“I’m afraid the request asked for your immediate presence in her audience chamber,” Seteth replied. “The archbishop values punctuality.”

“I, uh…” Looking down at his dirt and sweat stained clothes, Dimitri stared helplessly at Jeralt and Seteth. “I’m not presentable at the moment.”

Jeralt rolled his eyes. “Typical Rhea.” Clapping a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, he gave him a bitter smirk. “Keeping the archbishop waiting tends to put you on her bad side more than any dirt would, kid.”

“Agreed.” Seteth sighed. “If you would come with me, Your Majesty?”

“Good luck,” Jeralt offered. 

_Wonderful. Absolutely splendid. My son, appearing before the leader of the Church of Seiros like a pig rolled around in the sty._

It appeared, however, that Dimitri didn’t have much choice.

“I did try and ask Rhea for a reprieve on your account, but she was insistent,” Seteth said as they climbed the stairs to the third floor of the monastery. “Frankly, I’m impressed with her patience.”

A patience that baffled Dimitri. “I honestly expected her to meet with me soon after the engagement was announced.”

“Be grateful you didn’t,” Seteth said flatly. “In this meeting, I’m reasonably sure she _won’t_ try to physically harm you.” 

That statement inspired very little confidence in his own safety.

When they entered the third floor’s main atrium, the stained glass murals and elegant tapestries provided little to distract from Dimitri’s nerves. Seteth stood by a closed door. “I have other duties to attend to,” he explained. “Try to avoid talking about Arianrhod. Or the wedding date. Or the…” He hesitated, then simply said, “It’s best to avoid talking at all, really.”

 _Great._ Dimitri watched nervously as Seteth left, then slowly knocked on the door, folding his arms behind his back. If he hadn’t already worked up a sweat with Captain Jeralt, he was sure he’d be soaked right now.

“Enter.” Rhea’s voice flowed coolly and calmly from her office. Dimitri swallowed as he pushed the door open, stepping inside.

The room was not as austere as he’d expected. Though spartan by royal standards, it was decorated tastefully enough, tapestries of the emblem of Seiros on the walls. Behind the lectern at the head of the room was a large stained glass mural of the Goddess seeding Fódlan with life, the light of the Blue Sea Star shining overhead. It filled the room with a cool light, which only added to his nerves.

The archbishop herself fixed him with a serene look from where she sat: two sofas facing each other over a low table. The scent of lavender tea permeated the room, and Dimitri swallowed as he looked at her. “My apologies for my tardiness,” he said, wincing at how his voice croaked. He bowed for good measure. “As well as my… current state. I was told I was to report to you immediately.”

“It is all right, child.” Rhea gave him a warm enough smile. “Please, sit.” She gestured to the couch opposite her. “The tea will refresh your spirits undoubtedly.”

Swallowing over the dry patch in his throat, he sat down on the couch. It was plush and soft, and he sunk a good six inches into the furniture. “Thank you,” he said, resisting the urge to rub his sweaty palms on his already dusty trousers. A cup had already been poured for him, but he waited until Rhea gestured for him to drink.

Her own cup clicked against the saucer in her hand as she stared at him evenly. He tried his best not to squirm; now that he was in her presence, he could see exactly why Byleth and Jeralt had tried to warn him about her. Though Rhea looked at him with a pleasant face, her eyes were cold, almost alien.

“I’m glad we could meet like this, Your Majesty,” she said calmly. “Due to our positions, we unfortunately have not had much time to get to know one another. Tell me, how have you enjoyed your stay at Garreg Mach so far?”

“It’s been rather pleasant,” Dimitri said evenly. “I am grateful for your patronage.”

“As you should be.” Rhea’s face took on a decidedly colder cast as she looked at him. He felt like an insect being examined, pinned beneath a magnifying glass. “It was not my decision to allow you to stay here, nor to marry the future archbishop.” His grip around his teacup trembled as her eyes narrowed. “I have invited you here to discern your intentions towards my heir.”

“I… see.” Goddess, if he could stop shaking for just _one second…_

Her lips curled up, as if amused by his nervousness. “Relax, Your Majesty. There is no need to fear me. As Byleth’s ward and mentor, I simply have a… vested interest in her future.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” he said softly.

“Tell me, then. Why did you propose to Byleth on the night of the millennial ball?” Rhea asked, leaning back on her sofa. 

“It was not my decision,” Dimitri said honestly. _Stick to the truth, just like she said, kid._ “I was advised to do so by my friend and advisor, Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius.” 

“On what grounds?”

“To improve the state of the kingdom of Faerghus, Your Grace.” Not trusting his hands to not betray him, he slowly set the teacup down. Even with his thirst, he didn’t want to risk breaking _another_ glass. “As well as strengthen the bonds between us and the Church.”

“They were not strong before?” Rhea asked.

 _Shit._ “Even strong bonds can still deepen with time,” he said, fumbling to find the right words to say. “Is that not so?”

Rhea rose an eyebrow. “And to what bond would you be referring to strengthening? The bond of loyalty? Of fealty to the goddess?” Her eyes grew cold once more. “Or a more financial bond?”

_Tell the truth._

“I will make no secret of our financial state,” Dimitri said slowly. “Our lives in Faerghus would be greatly improved by the assistance of the Church. But we would repay all debts in full once we have the capability of doing so.”

“I see.” Rhea took another tiny sip from her cup. “So you simply wish to wed my heir for money.”

 _What?_ “No!” he blurted out, then cringed. _Damn it, what is_ wrong _with me?_ “I-I mean, no. I do not see our union as a mere financial transaction.” The thought actually made him feel sick. “I simply want to restore peace and stability to Faerghus. If marrying Byleth will help me accomplish that aim, then I…” His hands balled into fists. “I believe she would make an excellent queen, Your Grace.”

“Undoubtedly. But Byleth’s place is not in Faerghus.” Rhea examined him coolly. “She has a duty to the Church that she has sworn to uphold and perform. This duty takes precedence above all others, even those of kingdoms and monarchies. If she is called upon to perform this duty, will Faerghus endure without a queen?”

His eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Your marriage will not hold sole claim over my heir, Your Majesty. If Byleth is required to return to Garreg Mach, will you restrain her in Fhirdiad?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t dare to do such a thing.”

“Yet you have already sent her to Arianrhod.” Rhea’s lips pressed firmly together.

“That was not my decision. I had no knowledge of her departure until two days ago.” He could feel sweat trickling down his neck.

“So you say.” Rhea sat up straight on her sofa, placing her tea on the table. “I want to make something abundantly clear, King Blaiddyd.”

Dimitri’s fingers dug into his thighs as he nodded.

“You have no right to take away my heir for your own selfish gain. While I cannot overrule Byleth’s decision, I will be the one marrying you together. By the power invested in me as archbishop of the Church of Seiros, my authority will bind you together.” Rhea’s eyes bored into his own, cold and glittering in the blue light of the stained glass. “It can also sever you apart if I determine that your marriage is a detriment to the future of the church.”

Dimitri said nothing, but his heart felt like it had been thrown into his stomach. 

“You will allow Byleth to return to Garreg Mach when her duty demands it,” Rhea continued calmly, her hands folded in her lap. “I have the right to recall her at any time if I believe it necessary. Any act of refusal on your part would be considered an act of war against the Church and treated appropriately. She will stay at Garreg Mach as long as is required of her. And if I receive word that Byleth is unsafe in your care…” Death itself would have looked at him kinder. “The least you will worry about will be a terminated marriage.”

His fingers nearly ripped cloth as he stared at her in dread.

“Is that understood, Your Majesty?” she said coldly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he whispered.

Rhea poured herself another cup of tea, and the second her eye contact broke Dimitri let himself shake, if only for a moment. _What she’s saying… Byleth will be my wife in practically just name._ Rhea could insist that Byleth stay at Garreg Mach right after their wedding and he would be powerless to refuse her.

 _She doesn’t have to be in Faerghus to help._ Yet when they had spoken of their future, he had always imagined her at his side, fighting together. He _wanted_ her to be in Fhirdiad, with him. Already that future seemed to be slipping away.

“You must understand,” Rhea said, jarring him from his thoughts, and he straightened up again. “While the Church is a great force for good across Fódlan, we are not as well beloved as some would think. There are a great many who would wish to do harm to Byleth. Here at Garreg Mach, she has been protected all her life.” Her eyes glanced up from her cup of tea. “Can you offer her the same protection in Faerghus?”

Could he?

Forcing his fingers to uncurl, he pondered on his words heavily. “My knights are men I trust with my life unequivocally,” he said after a moment. “They would sacrifice their lives for the good of Faerghus, and for the good of Fódlan.” Meeting Rhea’s eyes, he took a deep breath. “If that does not convince you, then perhaps this will. As king of Faerghus and bearer of the crest of Blaiddyd, I swear to the goddess that I will keep Byleth Eisner safe upon my life. May death take me before any harm befall her.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. 

“I see,” Rhea said softly. To his surprise she looked unnerved, as if he’d spoken gibberish. “I accept your oath.” 

_Why do I feel like I’ve just made a huge mistake?_

The archbishop took another sip of tea. “I believe this meeting has been very productive, Your Majesty. I trust that we understand one another in our desires?”

 _Goddess, I hope so._ He just nodded.

“Then you may go.” 

Apparently that was all the dismissal he was going to get. Picking himself off the couch, he winced at the bit of dust he’d left behind. “I…”

Rhea just waved her hand. “It’s no problem. Please, return to your previous activities.”

Bowing quickly, he all but ran out of the room, only pausing to stop and gather his scattered thoughts when he was safely down the corridor and near the stairwell. 

“Your Majesty?”

The noise he made when Dedue appeared was nothing short of embarrassing, but he couldn’t help it; his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. “Dedue,” he breathed. “Goddess above, you scared me.”

“No more than the archbishop, I presume?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dimitri chuckled bitterly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Quite.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “She basically said that she can annul the marriage at any time if she finds me an unfitting spouse.”

“Ah.” 

Letting out a heavy breath, Dimitri flexed his fingers a few times in an attempt to stop the shaking. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admitted, leaning against the wall. “I…”

“Perhaps it would be best to focus on one thing at a time,” Dedue suggested, his hand coming to rest on Dimitri’s forearm. “I’ve received word from the huntmaster. Apparently there is a giant wolf in the area that has been harassing hunting parties for the last week. It should be no farther than three leagues from the monastery.” He smiled faintly. “I told him that we were expecting slightly less ferocious game—”

“No, that’s fine,” Dimitri said, looking up at Dedue. “Actually that’s…” Somehow he matched Dedue’s smile. “Can you prepare and meet me in the entrance hall in an hour?”

Dedue blinked. “You wish to start the hunt now?”

“Byleth’s journey won’t be long, and who knows how long tracking the beast will take.” Dimitri hesitated. “If you don’t wish to come along…”

“Accompanying you into danger is my duty, Dimitri,” Dedue said firmly. “I will be ready.” Dimitri smiled, clasping his arm before they descended down the stairs to their quarters. 

Perhaps he was being a bit reckless. But for once, he wanted to be the hunter instead of the hunted. He’d been feeling cooped up in Garreg Mach anyway, resolving only the smallest of issues with the upcoming wedding.

Frankly, the further he was from Rhea, the better.

* * *

The journey to Arianrhod had been just as uneventful as Byleth expected.

By sticking to the main roads, bandit attacks were rare — there had only been one attempted raid by a small group in the middle of the night when they had to stop in between villages. The knights had managed to chase them away easily enough. A successful raid would have required a large force of bandits, seasoned and experienced; when Byleth saw their retreating figures they had looked to be teenagers. 

_Probably desperate for some coin that won’t be eaten up by the Western Church,_ she mused grimly. 

Other than that, there had been very little to break the monotony of the journey. When they camped, be it outside or in inns, several of the knights gathered together to play cards as squads. Byleth had no squad, so she contented herself with getting some extra sleep. 

When sleep didn’t come, she found herself twisting the ring Dimitri had given her between her fingers. She wore it on a chain around her neck so she wouldn’t damage it if she got into a fight. _It reminded me of you,_ he’d told her. Such a simple phrase, and yet… It meant that he’d thought of her. Their conversation outside of Garreg Mach before the convoy convened lingered in her thoughts, as well as his hug… and his kiss. It had been a simple motion, and yet… 

She missed that feeling already. Of being close to someone. Usually on missions such as these she at least had her dad for company. Here, she was alone.

After four days of travel, they finally arrived at Arianrhod. Byleth examined her surroundings carefully, her stomach twisting as they entered the city gates. 

As the archbishop’s heir in all but name, she had never left Garreg Mach except on missions with her dad, and those had been to small villages with bandit problems. Garreg Mach’s own town was neat and orderly, its people cheerful and happy from their prosperity. Nestled in the mountains and blessed by the goddess, there was very little cause for concern beyond everyday troubles. Streets were clean and well kept, children laughed and played.

There was none of that here in Arianrhod. 

Even the knights grew quiet as they passed through the muddy streets, and despite the crowd and bustle of people, Byleth was unnerved at how _quiet_ it was. There was no chatter, no laughter or even smiles as people passed. What few children she could see wore no shoes and either clung to their parents or stuck to the shadows. Even the colors of the city felt muted, the buildings sagging from age and neglect. With the smoke rising from chimneys — Dimitri had been right about the cold weather — and the cloudy skies, the sun didn’t shine here.

She didn’t know if that would make things look better or worse.

The longer she stared, the more her chest felt heavy. Beggars seemed to populate every street corner, some lying prone in alleyways or at the corners of open markets. No one looked at them, their eyes passing over as if they were simply an extension of the muddy earth. Considering the wan and thin state of most everyone she saw, Byleth couldn’t exactly blame them. 

_Is this what it’s like everywhere in the kingdom?_ She couldn’t believe that the church had taken no notice of the state of Arianrhod before this moment. What cleric or cardinal could idly look at the beggars lying in the streets? It felt like a fog had fallen over them, weighing down on her as she looked at the rampant poverty around her.

Grandmother had taught her that the strongest opponent to change in the world wasn’t malice, but apathy. Walking the streets, seeing the people barely glance at their passing convoy, she could believe that wholeheartedly. 

As they traveled deeper into the city, things grew cleaner, if incrementally. Yet that wasn’t enough to not surprise Byleth when she saw the pristine cathedral, white stones practically glowing in the midst of the lesser buildings. As the captain ordered the company to halt, Byleth found herself examining the building. It was definitely smaller than Garreg Mach, but its stained glass windows were expansive, stone reliefs and delicate carvings carefully preserved. It was a beautiful building, but all the more jarring for its beauty.

“Look alive for the bishop, lads,” the captain said. Byleth frowned even as she fell into parade stance, her arms rigid at her sides. _The bishop himself is coming out to receive the shipment?_ It was unusual — the Western Church had accountants and scribes that could do the work far better. These shipments were routine, something a bishop over an entire region wouldn’t normally concern themselves with.

The doors to the creaked open, and she watched in utter confusion as the bishop’s entourage made their way down the steps. She recognized the bishop easily enough, wearing black and scarlet robes that delineated him as a high ranking church official. Short and stout, she noted that he lacked the lean physicality of most of the people she’d spotted in the city. Guerin’s blonde hair was elegantly coiffed, his eyes slivers of pink as he eyed the caravan. His attendants wore white, but her eyes widened as they drew close to the convoy.

Beneath the hoods and caps of the clergy, a good half of the bishop’s priests wore masks. Black and leathery, a beaked nose protruded from their faces with the eyes made of what appeared to be dark glass. She’d seen masks similar to those worn by plague doctors as a child, but these were entirely different. No priest wore masks like those — at least, no priests sanctioned by the church. 

“I trust the journey was uneventful, captain?” Bishop Guerin said. His robes were not ostentatiously ornate, but Byleth spotted more than one ring on his hand. A gold chain rested around his neck. All subtle indicators of wealth.

“No trouble at all, Your Grace.” The captain handed the bishop a scroll. “We conducted our last inventory this morning.”

“I see.” Yet the bishop waved over one of the masked priests to hand them the scroll. “Standard inspection.”

The masked priest took several of his fellows and headed to the first of the three wagons. That one held the most of the gold shipment, obscured as sacks of grain. Byleth watched as the priest examined the cart for a bit, then nodded to the bishop. Guerin smiled, clasping his hands together. “Thank you, captain. You are dismissed. Arrangements at the Rosen Crown, as per usual.” 

_That’s… it?_ No inspection of the other carts? _And staying at a tavern? We’re knights of Seiros — we should be staying at the cathedral._ Most of the unmasked priests, Bishop Guerin included, were already leaving; the masked ones lingered near the first wagon, almost like a guard. 

“What about distribution?” Byleth asked. 

The bishop stopped, turning to look at her with a raised eyebrow. 

_Shit._

“Distribution is handled by the priests,” one of the knights explained quietly. “Our part's over.” Several knights were wandering off already, talking about what drinks they were going to order at one of the taverns. The captain hadn’t even called for dismissal, but he himself didn’t seem to care. Bishop Guerin still stared at her, his eyes glittering in the scattered light breaking through the clouds.

“I see,” she said, folding her hands behind her back. “My apologies.”

The bishop frowned at her for a moment more, then waved for some of his masked priests to follow him back inside the cathedral. The knot in her stomach didn’t unclench, even when he was inside. 

Just as the knight had said, a few priests and nuns were already lining up to take the shipment inside. She frowned; these other clergy were dressed plainly, with none of the excess of the priests or the bishop, and only took boxes from the back of the wagons before leaving. Presumably those were individual donations. One nun struggled to lift her box, grimacing as a corner slipped out of her grasp.

“Here, let me help with that,” Byleth said, quickly catching the crate. It was heavier than she’d expected, and she wondered how the nun had managed to even lift it in the first place. “You all right?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.” The nun smiled, her hat and ashy blonde hair a bit askew. “I can manage from here.”

Byleth rose an eyebrow. “Where are you taking this to?”

“Oh, just a few streets down. It’s really no trouble. I do this every time the supplies arrive.” 

_Every time?_ Clearly she was stronger than she looked. “I’ll help,” Byleth said, shifting the weight of the crate onto her hip. “Lead the way.” 

The nun flushed. “O-Oh, really, I shouldn’t… You must be tired from your trip!”

“I’m fine. We’re supposed to help regardless.” Byleth glanced sourly at the empty square; it appeared all of them had decided to hit up that tavern instead. _Emphasis on “supposed to.”_

The nun giggled, raising a hand to her lips. “Oh my. You must be new here.”

Byleth shrugged. “If you wouldn’t mind pointing me in the general direction…”

“Oh, of course! I’m so sorry!” The nun quickly waved her down the street, walking slightly ahead of Byleth as she guided her to the left. “It shouldn’t be that far — I take a few shortcuts to get here from the orphanage.”

They weren’t heading to the cathedral. _An orphanage outside the church?_ “You work there?” Byleth asked, shifting the box in her arms as she walked. At least the armor protected her from splinters and sharp edges. 

“I run it. Since there’s not much of a profit in charity business, members of the clergy often do most of that sort of work.” She smiled. “We’re supposed to help regardless.”

Byleth glanced down at the crate. Though it was packed with a few sacks of flour, as well as some vegetables and even a bit of sugar, she doubted it could feed more than a family for a month. “How large is your orphanage?”

“About a dozen children, sir knight.” The nun gestured to a building that, while neat and orderly, still looked old and dilapidated. One of the windows was even boarded up on ground level. “Here we are! It’s not much, I know, but we make do.” 

_This is a church run orphanage?_ As a nun, this woman should have direct funding from the western church — if not have a spot in the cathedral itself for taking care of the children. One of Garreg Mach’s wings was devoted to their orphanage and poorhouse. This could be a simple extension as a result of overcrowding, but that idea did nothing to soothe the unease making Byleth’s skin crawl. 

The nun’s cheer didn’t match the gloom of the place very well, but Byleth supposed that “making do” was the informal motto of the people living here in Arianrhod. Unlocking the door and swinging it open, she ushered Byleth inside. “You can set it down on the table here and I’ll unpack it later,” she said. “Thank you so much for your help.”

“Miss Mercy!”

Byleth watched as a few children came running down the stairs. They were clean and well groomed, but their clothing stood in dire need of repair — one of the dresses had a large rip up to her knee, while a boy’s shirt had a hole on his shoulder that his arm poked through. Glancing at the crate, her worry increased. How was “Miss Mercy” going to feed twelve children with just a few sacks of flour until the next shipment? 

“Miss Mercy, who’s that?” one of the girls asked. A bit of hair stuck in her mouth, and Miss Mercy tugged it out before answering.

“This friendly knight from the church helped me carry home our groceries. Isn’t that wonderful? Now, what do we say?”

“Thank you,” the children echoed in a chorus.

Byleth smiled awkwardly. “There’s no need for that. I’m just doing my job.” Rolling her arms as she set the crate down on the table, she examined her surroundings. They were in what appeared to be the kitchen, an old iron stove in the corner providing some heat. The interior was just as neat as the exterior, and more pleasant to look at: while it was still undeniably old, the furniture was well kept and the walls had a fresh coat of paint. A few haphazard strokes formed murals on the wall, undoubtedly from one of the children who had managed to snag a brush. Little butterflies and the sun and moon hovered over some stick renditions of people, all smiling and happy. 

“Ah, forgive the mess,” Miss Mercy said, clearing up some dishes from the table and placing them in the sink. “Our home is no palace, but it serves us quite well.”

“It’s wonderful,” Byleth said softly. 

“Oh, where are my manners? Please, sit down — I was planning on making tea for the children, and you’re welcome to join us.”

Byleth hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I insist,” Miss Mercy said firmly, and Byleth blinked at the stern tone of her voice — iron beneath airy dulcet breaths. “Let it serve as our thanks for helping us.” 

Clearly refusing would be rude, so Byleth sat down at the table. “Juris, Karlis, can you get the tea leaves?” Miss Mercy asked, withdrawing both an old teapot with a chip in the lid and a large kettle. Filling the kettle with a few pumps of water from the sink, she placed it on the stove. “Please, sit,” she repeated, accepting some pouches the children gave her. “Do you like peppermint?”

“It’s my favorite,” Byleth admitted, easing herself into one of the chairs around the kitchen table. With her armor adding to her weight, she didn’t want to break one of the legs.

“Are you really a knight?” one of the boys asked, his blonde hair falling in his face — she noted he was missing one of his teeth, probably waiting for the next to grow in. 

“I am,” she said, resting a hand on her sword. 

“You’re too small to be a knight,” the boy said firmly.

“Karlis!” Miss Mercy snapped. “That’s quite rude!”

Byleth shook her head. “It’s all right. I suppose I am pretty small.” Compared to her father and Dimitri at least, she was tiny. 

“I want to be a knight when I get bigger,” Karlis continued, sitting down at the table opposite her. “Knights get all the money.”

Byleth’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“The knights bring all the money from the church into town, but no one actually gets any,” Karlis said, playing with his hands on the table. Miss Mercy was notably silent. “It all just goes into the big cathedral. But the knights and priests get some. I don’t want to be a priest, it sounds boring.”

“Karlis, run and fetch the others,” Miss Mercy said quietly. “The tea is almost ready.”

His chair scraped against the floor as he left, and Byleth turned to glance at the nun. “I’m sorry if what he said offended you,” she said quietly, fiddling with the pot as she waited for the kettle to boil. “He’s just a boy.”

“I’m not offended.” Byleth clasped her hands in her lap. “Though what he said troubles me.”

“Oh?” When the kettle hissed, Miss Mercy suddenly became very preoccupied with preparing the tea. “If it’s about your height—”

“No. What he said about the money going into the cathedral and not coming out.” 

The teapot’s lid clicked against the clay as she replaced the kettle on the stove. “He… He’s just a boy. And I wouldn’t know anything about that. It’s rumors, you see? He catches them when he goes out to play.”

Byleth raised an eyebrow. “As a nun yourself, you should know what is happening in the Western Church more than anyone else.” Her hand shifted back down to her sword. “Are the rumors true?”

Miss Mercy’s smile was strained as she began pouring the tea into cups. “Tea’s ready, children!” she called; Byleth turned as the rapid thumps of children running down the stairs echoed in the small kitchen. “Now remember, one biscuit each,” she said, the orphans forming an orderly row. Byleth counted thirteen of them, the youngest most likely five while the eldest was only twelve. She handed them their cups as they approached the table; a large jar of shortbread cookies was opened and passed around. “Juris, can you handle things here?” she said, taking the remaining two cups. “I need to talk with Sir…”

The boy nodded, and Byleth’s grip tightened on her sword as she followed Miss Mercy down the hallway. There was a small sitting room with a couch and armchair, both old and patched. Miss Mercy gestured for Byleth to take a seat on the sofa, handing her the mug of tea. “I’m afraid I’m saving the sugar for Louisa’s birthday,” she said softly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Byleth shook her head, taking a tentative sip. It was weak tea, but she figured that the pot would steep overnight, then be served watered down over the coming days. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“I didn’t want the children to have to hear of this,” Mercy admitted, staring at her own mug of tea. “It’s bad enough they have to listen to the rumors. The truth…”

“What is the truth?” Byleth asked, leaning forward. 

“It’s as Karlis said. The money goes into the cathedral and doesn’t come out.” Mercy sighed, twisting the mug between her hands. “Things are very different than what they used to be. My mother and I were taken in by the church when I was just a girl. My whole life I’ve wanted to do the same for others, but Bishop Guerin… Well, needless to say he’s only interested in keeping up appearances. I don’t know what he’s doing with all the money, but no one challenges him.”

“Why not?” Byleth frowned. “It’s clear to see that Arianrhod is suffering.”

“No more than the rest of the kingdom, I’m afraid.” Mercy’s eyes took a somber cast as she took a sip. “It’s easy to pin the blame on the king instead of the bishop. Ever since the Tragedy, things have been hard on all of us, and it’s not getting any better. Famine, bandits…”

“That’s not D— the king’s fault,” Byleth replied. “He’s been trying his best.”

“He’s certainly better than Rufus,” Mercy agreed. “Even though he’s not quite all there. At least he means well.”

Byleth frowned. “What do you mean ‘not all there’?” That had been the third time someone had referenced Dimitri’s mental state in a negative way, and this woman was from Faerghus. Was Dimitri’s reputation so poor in his own country?

“Well, it’s just rumors,” Mercedes admitted with a blush. “I mean no disrespect. He’s a good man, I’m sure. It’s just that, well… they say he speaks to the air sometimes. Or that he’ll just stand there for hours, like he can’t hear or see anything.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. But no wonder not much has been done here.”

“He isn’t able to do much here because he has no jurisdiction over church matters,” Byleth said flatly.

Mercedes paused. “A fair point,” she admitted. “And I know it’s not his fault. He’s trying to do good. Why, isn’t that what his marriage to the Archbishop’s heir is all about?” She smiled as Byleth nodded. “I’m sure he’s a good man. But you’re right. He has no control over the bishop.” Her cheerful face fell. “None of us do.”

“As a nun, you have the right to request inquisition,” Byleth said. “Contact the Central Church, tell them what’s going on.”

Mercy smiled sadly. “One nun? Against the word of the bishop? I’m afraid my word isn’t worth much. I can barely get by with these little ones. If I challenged the bishop himself, I…” She took a long sip. “The supplies we receive are stretched thin as is.”

Byleth’s lips pressed together. _It figures that blackmail isn’t too far a stretch for a man who’s been robbing the church for years._ “How long has this been going on?” she asked. 

“It started when I was a teenager,” Mercedes admitted. “About… seven years ago. Not this badly, mind you. There was still an orphanage inside the cathedral itself — I worked with the children there before they moved our group here. But I noticed new priests, dressed differently. The ones with the masks.”

“Do you know who they are?”

Mercy shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Even if it wasn’t, she’d said enough. “Thank you, Miss Mercy,” Byleth said quietly.

“Oh dear! I never told you my name. I’m Mercedes von Martritz.” She smiled. “And you are…?”

“Byleth,” she said simply.

“Oh, like the archbishop’s heir.” Byleth hesitantly nodded, though the nun didn’t linger on that thought. “I wonder how she’s feeling right now. I can’t believe she’s finally marrying, and the king of Faerghus at that!” Mercedes sighed happily. “It’s good that he’s getting some happiness these days. Can you imagine how awful it must be, having all your family just… gone? No wonder he’s struggling.”

Byleth’s stomach twisted. “It does seem terrible.”

“I’m sure a woman’s touch will do him some good,” Mercedes said cheerfully. “And with you stationed at Garreg Mach, you’ll be able to see the wedding yourself. My, the lady Eisner will look beautiful, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Byleth whispered, taking another sip of her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for sticking with this story despite the haphazard updating schedule. There's been a lot of personal stuff that's come up with both me and family members, so getting into the writing zone is a bit difficult for me sometimes. So thank you for your patience! (and thank you to those who helped beta for this chapter!)
> 
> We finally get our first kiss between the couple, lol - and while feelings are blossoming it's clear that there's still a bit of a misunderstanding between Dimitri and Byleth on what exactly their relationship is. Rhea isn't exactly helping matters, lol. I do feel bad showing this side of Rhea because frankly it's not exactly a fair representation of who she is, but people DID say she wasn't as scary as they feared so I guess I did something right? 
> 
> Also for those of you waiting for Mercedes to pop up, here she is! That's 7/8 Blue Lions - and don't worry Ashe fans, he's coming! (eventually... when I get there lol)
> 
> Thanks once again for reading!


	11. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether hunting giant beasts or the truth, you must remember that you are as much the prey as you are the predator.
> 
> CW: Swearing, blood, toilet humor

The first time Dimitri hunted, it had been with his father.

The snowfall had been thick and heavy, perfect for tracking animals. Gustave had already taught him the main patterns, how to tell by the depth and clusters of prints how many deer had passed through, or how broken branches indicated the presence of a larger predator. Winter hunting was an old Faerghan tradition, something that one passed down from father to son. Even in the royal family, it was taught that way. You didn’t learn from a tutor: you learned from your father how to feed yourself and your family.

_ The trick is to remember that you are just as much the hunted as you are the hunter, _ his father had whispered.  _ Never underestimate your quarry. That’s the quickest way to get yourself killed. _

Especially when you were hunting not just a regular animal, but a giant beast. 

Hunting in the spring was far different than winter hunting: No need to fear death from the cold, no frozen toes or fingers. Yet Dimitri missed the crisp air, the crunch of snow beneath his feet. It had been years since his last hunt: as king, you only hunted for sport, and his father had disapproved of the practice. Considering the present circumstances of the kingdom, it felt wasteful to kill animals for the sake of killing.

The giant wolf they’d been tracking for a day and a half, on the other hand, proved a danger to the citizens living at Garreg Mach. According to the huntmaster, it had injured one of their hunting parties, and the knights hadn’t found much success in tracking it down. Hunting giant beasts was a treacherous task with a whole team of experienced hunters. 

No wonder Jeralt had stared at him like he was mad when he’d left two afternoons ago.

“The tracks lead that way,” he noted, pointing with his hunting spear to the imprints in the soil. It had rained recently, providing soft ground: perfect for tracking. “Its den probably isn’t far.” The huntmaster had said that the wolf raided the hunting parties every other day, stealing their game for itself. The frequency of the attacks indicated that the beast lived close by.

“Then we should set up the trap here,” Dedue said, setting his small pack on the ground. Armed with just a bow and hatchet, he wouldn’t be able to give Dimitri that much backup. That was the point of the tradition: the man had to prove himself to his future family. If Dimitri wasn’t the one to secure the kill on the wolf, then the hunt would be a failure. If they were really sticking to tradition, then he wouldn’t have been allowed to bring Dedue at all.

Granted, most men didn’t hunt giant beasts for their fiancee.

“With these trees here?” he asked, pointing to the two large pines. 

“This one will make a good anchor.” Dedue pulled out his hatchet, marking it with a few chops. “The other will serve as a good brace for the trap.” He handed Dimitri his axe, pointing to somewhere behind him. “That thick sapling should work for the main arm. I’ll fashion the rest.”

The tree Dedue indicated was younger, the trunk as wide as Dimitri’s waist. Still, freshly felled, it would work for their trap well enough. Making sure to not swing too hard, Dimitri felled the tree after a good fifteen minutes of chopping. Stripping the branches on all sides but one took longer, and he noted grimly that the sun was already starting to descend by the time he’d cleaned the tree into something more like a log. The remaining branches he sharpened into small spikes, using his knife to do so. Dedue had already constructed the rest of the trap, digging notches into the anchor tree for rope, leaving the bracing tree alone. All that was left was to attach the main spikes and set up the trap.

“I am not entirely sure this will work,” Dedue noted as he used rope to lash sharpened spikes onto the surface of the felled tree. “Most whip traps are far smaller than this one.”

“It was your idea,” Dimitri pointed out wryly.

Dedue smiled faintly. “It was yours to actually hunt a giant wolf.”

_ Fair point. _ “I’ve never seen a trap like this,” Dimitri admitted.

“Even in Duscur they are not commonly used.” Dedue wiped his brow as he attached the last spike. “Much less one this size. But this will be best for downing a large beast. A pit would take too much time to dig, and the beast would just break through a trip wire.” With the final knot, he rose from the ground. “Your strength is the only reason this trap is feasible in the first place. Now, take the sharp end.”

On Dedue’s instruction, they both lifted the sapling together — Dimitri held most of the weight while Dedue lashed the thick end to the anchoring tree. “Now, bend,” he instructed.

Slowly, making sure to not actually break the sapling, Dimitri bent the tree around until the spikes pointed perpendicular to the path their prey would take. Accepting some rope tossed from Dedue, he lashed the end to that tree, then carefully released the tree, testing the strength of his knot. 

Satisfied that the trap wouldn’t take him out instead of the wolf, he rejoined Dedue. “Well, that part works.”

“Now for the quarry. How will you bring it back here?”

“Bait.” Dimitri found his pack, pulling out a large waterskin. “The butcher gave me some hog’s blood before we left. That should draw the beast.”

“You’ll put it on the trap?”

“That would take too long. The sun will set soon.” Dimitri glanced up at the skyline — he had about two hours of strong daylight left. “I’ll have to lead the wolf here into the trap.”

Dedue did not look particularly impressed. “I don’t think this is a particularly wise choice, Dimitri,” he said dryly as he watched Dimitri replace his belongings. He would only take his lance and a short spear for throwing in case matters got seriously out of hand. With the wolf in pursuit, he’d need to be as light and fast as possible.

“The point isn’t really to test wisdom, unfortunately,” Dimitri replied. “It shouldn’t take long to bring the beast back here. You’ll cut the rope when I tell you to?” Dedue nodded. “Good. If I’m not back in an hour, come after me.”

Dedue raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

With that rousing vote of confidence, Dimitri continued to follow the tracks. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to go far — wolves moved very quickly, and while the odds were in his favor for a prolonged chase, it would be better to conserve his energy actually fighting the beast.

The tracks overlapped more and more as he walked. After a few minutes of hiking, he noticed that the foliage was trampled, small trees even snapped and broken by the passing of the wolf.  _ Getting closer now. _ At least he wouldn’t have to deal with a pack of the things: while normal wolves gathered together in groups, giant beasts tended to be solitary creatures, and the huntmaster had only mentioned the one wolf. 

When the bones started poking out of what little ground cover remained, Dimitri knew he was close. Keeping a careful hold on the skin in his hands, he slowed his pace to a crawl. Alerting the beast too soon would be a very bad thing.

Especially once he actually saw the giant wolf prowling in the tree line not thirty yards away.

It had been a long time since Dimitri had seen a giant beast — the last time he had hunted one was before Duscur, and he’d forgotten just how  _ large _ these things could get. It was easily the size of a small house, its footfalls like boulders crashing to the ground as it moved. Its face alone was probably the size of Dimitri — he didn’t want to think about the size of the fangs. And he was supposed to kill that thing. Preferably in single combat.

_ Dedue’s right. I’m an idiot. _

Well, they’d come all this way.

Unstopping the skin, he winced as the metallic tang of hog’s blood filled the air. Instantly the beast’s head snapped up, sniffing the air. “Hey!” Dimitri shouted, splattering the blood on his boots. The beast would follow his scent as well as the sound of voice. 

The wolf’s eyes caught him. That was the cue to run.

Mud splattering his cloak, Dimitri sprinted back the way he came, blood flying as he tossed the empty skin. Loud thumps echoed behind him along with the snapping of branches, and he bit back a curse as he heard the panting breaths of the wolf.  _ Just a little bit farther, just a bit farther— _

The mud slipped and slid beneath his feet, and he cursed as he nearly lost his footing, pushing off the ground with his leg. “Dedue!” he shouted, spotting the marked tree. “Get ready!”

Dedue’s hatchet flashed. The wolf snarled as it followed Dimitri into the path of the trap, dirt flying from its claws as it relentlessly sought after its quarry. Heart pounding, Dimitri grinned as he grasped a protruding branch, swinging himself behind a tree. “Cut it!” Dimitri shouted.

The  _ thunk _ of Dedue’s axe against the wood was followed by an unearthly loud roar as the tree whipped around, catching the wolf right in the legs. The earth rumbled beneath him as the beast fell to the ground, howling in pain. Dimitri sucked in a deep breath as he rounded the tree, reaching for the short spear on his back. 

Only to watch wide eyed as the wolf crawled to its feet, frothing and snarling as it leveled its beady eyes straight at him. Some of the spikes had managed to pierce its hide, blood dripping from the fur onto the ground. Yet the way it moved suggested that it wasn’t hurt.

Just very,  _ very _ angry.

_ Well, shit. _

* * *

“I always wanted to go to Garreg Mach,” Mercedes confessed. The tea had gone cold a while ago, but Byleth suspected that a break from running the orphanage was something the nun didn’t get very often. “I had a friend who attended the Officer’s Academy there, but I decided against it.” She smiled at the group of children playing in the kitchen. “I knew what my calling was.”

“Do you regret your decision?” Byleth asked, placing her cup on the small table between their two couches. 

“I would be lying if I said I didn’t. I had so much fun as a student at the School of Sorcery, and I made such a dear friend in Annie. We still write each other letters.” Mercedes smiled proudly. “But I don’t think I would have fit in. Imagine little old me at the most prestigious school in Fódlan. I would have attended with His Majesty if I had chosen to go.” Her hands slipped to a basket at her side, pulling out an old dress that was half patched. “Annie told me about him in her letters. The poor man had just survived the Tragedy of Duscur, and then his uncle forced him to go to that school only a few months later.” She shivered. “How terrible.”

Byleth couldn’t help but agree. Considering how Dimitri spoke of him, as well as his reputation, she wasn’t surprised that the man had essentially kicked Dimitri out of his home to have the throne all to himself. 

“Ah, pardon me.” Mercedes flushed as she gestured to her sewing. “I promised Laima that I would fix this dress up in time for the wedding. She can’t go obviously, but the children still want to celebrate.”

_ Right. Even if they can’t come to Garreg Mach, people will still be celebrating the wedding here. _ “It’s no problem.” The nun’s hands worked expertly, her stitches so small that the tear disappeared between her fingers. “You’re a great seamstress.”

“Oh, I’m not so great,” she demurred humbly, smiling as she worked. “My mother was the true seamstress. She could spin dresses out of thin air. I never picked it up quite like she did, but if I can save some money and keep the children clothed, all the better.” 

When she put it like that, the weight in Byleth’s gut only sank heavier. “I should go,” she said quietly. “Thank you for the tea.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Mercedes said, rising from her armchair to shake Byleth’s hand. “It’s good to see someone who cares in Arianrhod.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope to see you again sometime.”

Byleth paused herself. Then, quietly, she murmured, “You will.”

If Mercedes looked shocked at that answer, Byleth didn’t catch it. She was halfway to the kitchen when she looked at the small crate of supplies on the table, listening to the laughter of children outside.

_ They deserve better than this. _

Stepping out onto the street, she caught sight of Karlis, then waved him over. Leaving the other kids behind to play with a worn out leather ball, he trotted up to Byleth with his hair flopping in his face. “You’re leaving?” he asked.

Byleth nodded, then reached for the money pouch at her belt. Untying the strap, she carefully counted out the coins in her hand before pulling it out of the bag. “If Miss Mercy asks, this is a gift,” she said quietly. “She’ll know how to spend it.” Karlis’s eyes widened as she took his hand and placed the coins in his palm. “Don’t give them to her until tonight. Can you promise me that?”

He nodded quickly, staring in wonder at the gold in his palm. 

“First thing about being a knight is doing the right thing,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Make sure that money gets to her.”

“I will.” 

“Good.” The other kids waved goodbye as she walked down the street, and glancing back she saw Mercedes stand in the doorway of the old dilapidated building, her hand raised in farewell.

Byleth matched the movement, then headed back the way she’d came.  _ Now for the tricky part. _

Retracing her steps wasn’t difficult, though the sun was starting to set as she headed towards the brassy spires of the cathedral. Night would fall in a few hours, and she wanted to get her work done before then. In a city like this, she suspected any single woman, even one armed and armored, would not be safe outside when it grew dark.

No one lingered outside of the cathedral’s walls — she suspected that the masked priests had something to do with that. No one even looked her way as she pushed the door open, at least. Whatever they were hiding, they felt no need to secure the entrance.

The inside of the cathedral was just as majestic as the outside. 

Byleth resisted the urge to keep her hand on the hilt of her sword as she walked through the small atrium into the chapel. As long as she kept her head cool and didn’t stick her nose in any trouble, she would be fine.

Except if you wanted to actually change things, you tended to need to stick your nose in trouble. 

The layout of the cathedral was a small backwards Garreg Mach, in a fashion: instead of having the mundane facilities in front, the worshipper was greeted by the chapel itself. Byleth’s steps echoed in the empty chamber, ringing off the balustrades and vaulted ceilings. At the front behind the elaborately gilded podium was a large stained glass window, similar to the ones she’d seen outside. Curiously enough this window did not depict the Vision of Saint Seiros nor the arrival of Sothis upon Fódlan’s soil, but the War of the Saints. Seiros raised her sword proudly above her head, Nemesis’s bloody body lying at her feet. 

Whenever she looked at a scene like that, something uncomfortable stirred in Byleth’s chest. 

But only a cursory inspection of the candles and incense burners confirmed a suspicion she’d held since arriving here in Arianrhod: this chapel was hardly used. Everything was  _ too _ clean, too orderly and pristine. There was no sense of use to the chamber. The cushions on the pews were perfectly arranged with no lumps. Ash didn’t flake off onto her gloves when she touched the incense burners. No wax drips on stone, no scuff marks, not even a stray footprint or a whiff of any cleaning scent.

This wasn’t a church. This was a facade.

“I’m not surprised you were drawn to that.”

Byleth glanced to the side to see an elderly priest approaching her way, his white robes and scarlet sash faded as he hobbled across the chapel’s floor. He wore no mask, yet she still felt an edge of apprehension as she looked at him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said with a smile, leaning on his cane as he moved.  _ “The Triumph of Seiros, _ 687\. This whole cathedral was built before the War of the Eagle and Lion, so the style resembles many of the art installations in cathedrals in Adrestria. It’s said that Loog himself would come to pray before this piece to summon up the courage to continue fighting.”

“I see.” 

The old man smiled. “You’re not here for an art history lesson though, are you? Tell me, what troubles you, child? I’ve not seen a knight enter this chapel in many moons.”

_ Well,  _ that _ troubles me. _ “It’s a, um…” She released her sword’s hilt. “It’s a bit embarrassing, Father.”

“Nothing could embarrass me, child,” the priest reassured her, laying a hand on her arm; she had to resist the urge to flinch. “I’ve been with the Church for a very long time. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“It’s just that I…” She forced out a nervous laugh. “I need to use the privy, and my squad left me behind.”

The priest chuckled. “Ah, I see. Well, there’s not a privy here, but I can take you back into the offices.”

_ Perfect. _

Following the old man, Byleth raised an eyebrow as he led her to a door that actually led behind the stained glass relief — light from a second, smaller window flooded the small antechamber as he opened the much heavier doors to the courtyard. While there was no chasm between the main buildings and the cathedral’s chapel like at Garreg Mach, the effect was replicated by having the chapel separate from the living quarters of the priests and nuns, only connected by a processional framed with old flowers that were beginning to crumble. It resembled Arianrhod at large: a beauty once vibrant that had dulled with time and neglect.

“The privy is all the way down the hall and to your right,” the priest instructed. “Just give the chain a few good tugs — the plumbing’s old.”

“Thank you, Father.” 

“And don’t let the other priests harass you either! They don’t like strangers going back there.”

_ Duly noted.  _

Byleth waited until the old man disappeared back inside the chapel, then quickly examined the hallway. If the architecture was a good match of Garreg Mach, then the bishop’s office would be upstairs, and stairs tended to be in the middle. No priests milled the hallway — since it was getting late they were probably at dinner, eating in their own dining hall. Perfect for her to do some looking around.

This place felt far more authentic, if a little gaudy, as she moved. The carpet beneath her feet felt too soft, tapestries cluttering the rich wooden walls. The key goal was comfort, and even the stairs were carpeted as she climbed them to the second floor. 

Peeking down the hallway revealed that it was similarly abandoned, though the scent of roasted meat wafted towards her. Keeping her pace slow and steady to prevent her armor from creaking, Byleth followed the scent, then paused as she spotted a door that was cracked open. Hushed voices slipped out from inside. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the wood of the door: elaborately carved, actual gold inlay. 

_ Definitely the bishop’s door.  _ And if this was just the door, then the office and living quarters themselves would likely be far more ostentatious.  _ Is this what he’s spending the money on?  _ It seemed so… frivolous.

“... sure that it’s not a spy?”

“We checked the personnel orders. Likely just a last minute transfer. These things happen occasionally.”

“I need a far better guarantee than ‘likely’,  _ gentlemen.” _ The last word dripped with sarcasm. “Tell me, is it that impossible for your organization to have roots in Garreg Mach? Surely a few priests can be swayed—”

“And leave a trail for the Archbishop to follow? No. You agreed to our terms. We will not change them.”

“Fine.  _ Fine.” _ A sigh, then, “But the money is in order?” 

“Every coin accounted for. Ancillary costs will take away approximately thirty five percent, but the rest can be saved for the cheaper groups. So long as you don’t find ways to waste it.”

“I will have you know that I have kept my personal expenses to ten percent or less!” the voice hissed indignantly. “And it’s not like you’ve done much better. I was promised three years, gentlemen, and it will soon be seven.”

“Negotiation is often not just a matter of money, but of time, Bishop.” Byleth raised an eyebrow. _So the bishop is taking orders instead of giving them?_ _Or are these men hired?_ “We must move slowly. A rock thrown quickly makes many ripples, yes?”

A long pause, then a sigh. “I suppose, yes. Very well. But I will need an extra five thousand. Lasma wants a new gown for the wedding, you see. ”

It was the other voice’s turn to sound disgruntled. “Five thousand for a  _ dress?” _

The conversation was clearly drawing to a close. Cursing her loud greaves, Byleth did her best to make it down the hallway and to the staircase before they finished; she heard the creak of the door opening just as she managed to slip downstairs, making her way towards the chapel. The hallway was deserted, just like before. In a way, it felt too easy, slipping in and out like this.

_ The bishop isn’t stealing the money on his own. He’s either working for or with someone. _ She had a suspicion that the masked priests were involved too — she highly doubted they were actual priests at all. And while Bishop Guerin spent some of the money for personal uses, they were also saving for something that should have been paid by now.

What that something was, she’d have to find out on her return.  _ I’ll have to make this a priority after the wedding. Three weeks shouldn’t change much in the grand scheme— _

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

Byleth froze as she turned to see one of the masked priests staring at her, the tinted lenses of her mask glinting in the fading daylight. “No one is permitted in here except for those of the Church,” she said coldly, pressing her ledger to her chest.

“I’m a knight of Seiros,” Byleth replied flatly. “And I was just using the privy. Am I not allowed to shit in a church?”

The priest made a noise of disgust. “Fine. Just head out the way you came.” She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “animal” as Byleth left, letting out an unsteady breath as she entered the church’s courtyard.  _ Too close. _

“Did you find it all right?” the old priest called from behind one of the pews as she came back inside the chapel.

“Yes, Father. Thank you.”

He smiled, looking up from what she realized was a worn copy of the Book of Seiros. “Goddess’s blessings be with you, child. May She smile upon your deeds.”

“The same to you, Father.” Considering what she’d just seen and heard, the words felt hollow, but perhaps this man was similar to Mercedes: a true follower of Seiros who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. One could hardly be blamed for bad luck. Still, his smile made her uncomfortable. 

Stepping out onto the street, she headed for the tavern the knights had mentioned, her hand falling back to her sword’s hilt.  _ I’ve got my work cut out for me. _ But she had discovered some of what was going on.

Hopefully Dimitri wasn’t fairing too poorly.

* * *

When the king didn’t come back for three days, Jeralt started to worry. And that pissed him off.

Why should  _ he _ care if the bastard got himself killed? Any loyalty Jeralt had to Faerghus had faded with time, and even if he  _ were _ loyal to the Holy Kingdom, his family always came first. The Blaiddyd was going to marry his daughter and steal her away, plain and simple. He and the king were fated to be mortal enemies. That should be the end of it. No worries, no muss, no fuss. 

Of course Sitri would give him hellfire for his attitude. She’d have welcomed the boy with open arms and prod Jeralt into doing the same.  _ He’s just a boy without a father, _ she would have said after stuffing the brat’s face full of her fish stew.  _ Get to know him. I’m sure you’ll love him. _

Well, he  _ didn’t _ love him, so there. But, well, credit where credit was due: the boy didn’t take after his uncle. Or he knew when to keep his hands to himself. Even with credit, though, that wasn’t enough to impress Jeralt. And for Seiros’s sake, he was marrying Byleth for the money — they could both talk high and mighty about “saving the Kingdom” but everyone knew that the only way to save the Kingdom was to pad the coffers with gold. This wasn't a wedding, it was a damn bank statement. You could gussy it up with silks and flowers and throw a whole party about it, but the king was buying stability and his daughter was the price. Excuse  _ him _ for being just a touch sour about it.

Everything about this situation felt like stepping in shit: you could wash the shit off or wipe it on something else, but you still stepped in shit. The smell would stick around long after it was gone.

So yeah, worrying about the bastard pissed Jeralt off. Especially because  _ he _ was supposed to be the one to strike the fear of Sothis into His Kingliness so he’d treat his girl right. You couldn’t do that if you were  _ worried _ about the kid. 

“Captain Jeralt?”

He glanced to see one of the new pages — nervous boy, clearly got tossed into the knights so that his parents could get him out of the house — hovering next to him. “You asked us to notify you if His Majesty returned?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh… He’s back, sir.”

Jeralt wasn’t relieved. Not at all. “He hurt?”

“We, uh…” The kid scratched the back of his head. “We don’t know, sir. There was a lot of blood. But he was walking all right?” 

Jeralt sighed.  _ Good enough. _ “Thanks, kid.” Scooting back from his chair, he groaned as his back popped — damn thing was way too soft, but Seteth refused to get him another one. The kid scrambled out of his office as he grabbed his spear and made his way downstairs to the entrance hall.  _ Wonder what he bagged. _ As tradition said, the bigger the better. Maybe the kid had managed to snag a wild hog or something; mean bastards could gore a man, but the king was walking. So he’d either gotten something more tame like a deer or was a better hunter than Jeralt gave him credit for.

Judging by the rumbling of the crowd — hell, the fact that there was a damn crowd in the first place — in the entrance hall, it was going to be the second option. 

Great. Fucking fantastic.

“All right, outta the way!” he barked, rolling his eyes as he had to push through a gaggle of nuns to get to the front of the hall. Honestly, it was like a traveling circus was showing up, not a man back from a hunt.  _ What the hell’s the— _

Two figures stood in the marketplace, one of them neat and well kept — the silver hair told him that was the Duscurian. The other had a good deal of blood on him, his spear resting on his shoulder. He wore some weird kind of rope truss, rigged to pull something like a cart. No, not a cart. A lashed together frame, the kind hunters used to drag their quarry back home.

And on the frame was not a boar, not a dear, but a giant wolf. A fucking  _ giant wolf. _

_ You’ve got to be shitting me. _

“... serviceable?” the Duscurian was in the middle of saying, talking to one of the merchants.

“Oh, the fur will be more than acceptable,” the merchant said eagerly. “I can give you a quota in a minute, but I’d say it’s more than enough to fashion several coats — lined inside and out, of course.” 

Jeralt could have told the man that: the beast was the size of a small cottage, for Saint’s sake. Sucking in a deep breath —  _ Patience is a virtue, Jeralt, _ Sitri would always tell him — he cut through the rest of the crowd clogging up the steps and stalked towards the king, who was busy fiddling with the harness.

“All right, what the hell is this?” he snapped as he folded his arms.

There. That was as patient as he could get.

The king for his part didn’t really look all that shocked. “Captain Jeralt,” he said — he had the balls to even  _ smile _ when he said it. “I’m sorry to take up all this space; we just got back, and uh…” He looked around. “I don’t suppose there’s a better place to take this…?”

“Kid.”

Dimitri blinked. “Yes?”

“You killed a fucking giant wolf. There _ is _ no better place to take it.” The damn carcass wouldn’t even fit through the door of the dining hall. 

Dimitri winced. “Ah.”

Jeralt rubbed at his forehead. “You know, for something like this a man normally hunts like, I don’t know, a deer or something. A bear if you really want to prove your balls. You don’t kill  _ a giant wolf.” _ Goddess, was this kid trying to compensate for something? 

“The huntmaster said that the beast was causing trouble for the villagers,” Dimitri said meekly. “I, er, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” 

_ Well, you screwed that up. _ But the kid  _ had _ killed a giant wolf. That was… It wasn’t impressive, it was fucking  _ nuts. _

Okay, maybe it was impressive. 

“Your man assist you?” Jeralt found himself asking.

“He set the trap and helped me track it. I merely killed the beast.” 

_ Merely _ killed? “Kid, I’ve fought giant beasts before. You hunt them in groups of five,  _ minimum _ .” Jeralt raised an eyebrow. “How the hell did you trap it?”

“A whip trap,” Dimitri said. “It was Dedue’s idea, actually. Considering the size of the beast, a pit wouldn’t have worked.” He smiled bitterly. “It was still difficult, but we managed.”

That was the understatement of the century. A whip trap would barely put a dent in a giant beast’s hide — the bastards had skins so thick they might as well be armor. Unless he swiped the legs, that meant he’d killed the wolf while it was still moving. On foot. And the king talked about it like he’d gone hunting eggs for breakfast. 

It was probably the Blaiddyd crest that did all the work. But hunting wasn’t about strength alone. It was about skill. Even if the skill was just making sure you didn’t get yourself killed.

Shit, was he starting to admire the kid?

“Well, you’re gonna have to get this out of the market place,” Jeralt said, sighing as he rubbed his forehead. “I’ll get the cooks and the huntmaster to come help skin this thing.” They’d need a small army to take care of it.

“Thank you, captain.” Dimitri smiled hesitantly — Sitri would have called the poor bastard “hopelessly adorable” from how awkward that smile was. “I appreciate it.”

“No skin off my nose. Though you’ll want to keep the other merchants off your back. They’d love to swindle you for all that fur.”

“Oh, I was actually going to use some of it for Byleth,” Dimitri said, shrugging off his harness and letting the ropes drop to the ground. “As well as the meat, of course. Just a few cuts though — the rest would go to those in need.”

Was the kid really trying to sway him by acting like a philanthropist? “Well, Byleth never learned how to sew, and if you’re hoping her cooking is good, you’re in for a world of disappointment.” Byleth  _ could _ cook all right, but the king was probably used to gourmet shit and fancy cooks.

“No, I meant…” Dimitri gave him that awkward smile again. “I would cook the meat and prepare the fur for her. As a gift.”

_ What? _

“Byleth’s the one that’s supposed to do that,” Jeralt pointed out.

“I know,” Dimitri said calmly.

Well, he didn’t  _ look  _ like he had a traumatic brain injury. The kid probably knew the tradition better than he did, considering how long it had been since Jeralt actually lived in Faerghus. If he wanted to jumble it up on purpose, that was his business. Jeralt couldn’t help but chuckle as he patted Dimitri on the shoulder. “Well, you’ll make a good wife for her at the very least,” he said, giving him a good shake. “I’ll go get the cooks. You get cleaned up, kid. You smell like a wolf’s asshole.”

Dimitri sheepishly laughed, and Jeralt spared him a chuckle in return. 

For a mortal enemy, he wasn’t all that bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a confession: this chapter in my original plot outline for this fic doesn't exist. But reading through the reactions to the last chapter, I realized that this chapter absolutely needs to exist due to pacing. It's shorter than the others, but still sets up some vital information for future plot points (and segues into the next chapter far better than just jumping to that)
> 
> I managed to write this in short order to keep up with my writing schedule then. Enjoy! (best enjoyed listening to the Mandalorian soundtrack, as it is incredible)
> 
> Jeralt's section was easily the most fun to write, mainly because he's such an interesting character and his fake animosity towards Dimitri is very silly compared to Rhea's _very real_ animosity towards him. Plus he's so different from Dimitri and Byleth, so it was a refreshing change of pace. 
> 
> In case y'all are wondering, no the old priest is not Tomas. He's just an old man chilling in the cathedral. I swear.


	12. Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for something to happen can be far more painful than the event itself. And while a wedding isn't _supposed_ to be painful, the anticipation is starting to wear on Byleth and Dimitri both.
> 
> CW: Suggestive themes, extremely painful awkwardness

Byleth’s gut tightened as she stared up at the white spires of Garreg Mach, her hands tugging at the straps of her pack. 

Returning home from a mission was generally a boring and dull affair. Some old stories that Dad told Byleth as a child painted the homecomings of knights as a rich and elaborate ceremony, with trumpets and celebration and feasting. A homecoming should fill her with some measure of joy, or relief at the very least.

Returning home to Garreg Mach, however, was nothing like that. In fact, sometimes it felt like Byleth was being ushered back into a prison cell. There she would return to her duties as the archbishop’s heir, with all the weight of expectations that implied. She shouldn’t complain: life at Garreg Mach must seem like paradise to the citizens of Arianrhod, with its clean corridors and food for all. But coming home was never quite the joyous event the other soldiers and stories described it as — especially this time, with Grandmother’s inevitable interrogation for her absence looming over her.

So when she entered the marketplace with the rest of the company, she stopped and stared with the rest of them as they looked at the large crowd assembled by the merchant stalls. It was clear that it wasn’t exactly a welcoming party, but the distraction (and delay from meeting with Rhea) was welcome enough. Her eyebrows lifted as she heard snatches of whispers.

“... just him and his retainer! Can you imagine that?”

“I’m impressed he didn’t get himself killed, considering…”

“—said that he’ll donate half the fur. Donate it! He could make thousands with a pelt that large!”

_ What in the world is going on? _

The captain of the company sighed, nodding at the soldiers. “Another mission well done. Dismissed, all of you.” He bowed his head to Byleth as she saluted, making her way towards the dining hall. Though curiosity hummed inside her at the whispers, they could wait until she got something to eat. It turned out that giving up most of her pocket money to Mercedes’s orphanage meant less money for food on the road — and she was starving.

Spices and the irresistible smell of roasted meat wafted from the dining hall as she rounded the crowds in the marketplace to the fishing pond. Her irritation grew as she saw yet  _ another _ crowd gathered outside, though not nearly as large as the one congregated by the market stalls. Sighing, she weaved her way through the crowd, her stomach growling as she followed the mouthwatering scent. 

To her surprise she saw the head cook — a stout woman of forty three years, who could wield a spoon as well as a knight could a sword — lingering on the steps, muttering something about “ruining everything.” Her eyes lit up as she spotted Byleth. “Oh, sir knight!” she called. “Goddess be praised, finally some law and order in this place.”

“What’s the problem?” Byleth asked, casting one longing glace at the open doors to the dining hall.  _ Let this be quick. _

“It’s a madhouse in there,” the cook complained, tugging at her apron. “Why I can’t believe it, a man of his station  _ cooking! _ And with a Duscur man at that!”

Byleth’s mood soured even further as she looked at the woman, irritation buzzing behind her temples. “What’s wrong with that?” she asked flatly. She didn’t care  _ who  _ was doing the cooking, as long as she got some of the end product. And  _ goddess  _ did it smell good.

“Well, it’s just not right, having a king cook,” she replied. “And all those spices! A romantic gesture to be sure, but Her Grace will probably die if she eats it!”

Something wasn’t clicking. “You’re saying that the  _ King of Faerghus _ is cooking something in the kitchen?” Byleth asked.

“Yes, sir knight, and he’s got his Duscur man in there with him, and they’re going to ruin all my spice arrangements—”

“Oh goddess be praised,” Byleth breathed, shaking her head. Dimitri cooking on his own sounded disastrous, considering his lack of taste — though she supposed that following a recipe shouldn’t be too hard for him. Still, he’d praised Dedue’s culinary skills, and she was inclined to believe him. The soup he’d prepared on their return trip to Garreg Mach was incredible. If they were both cooking inside, maybe she could sneak a bite or two…

“There you are, kid.”

Both the cook and Byleth turned to see Jeralt pop out from the dining hall, his expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Good timing, brat!” he shouted, and she blinked as he turned back to the kitchen. “She just got back!”

Something shattered inside, and the cook let out a groan at the sound. “That’s the seventh dish!” she wailed, storming off down the steps. “Seventh! Goddess preserve us, I’ll have no kitchen left at this rate…”

She needed answers. “Dad,” she said flatly, continuing up the steps to the dining hall. “What’s going on?”

“Well, your fiance went nuts while you were gone and decided to take you up on that Faerghus wedding tradition,” Jeralt replied, moving aside so she could step into the dining hall. There was yet  _ another _ crowd in here as well, most in the plain brown garb of the cooking staff; they stared at the entrance to the kitchen as if it were the battlement of an enemy fortress, or perhaps the site of a grave disaster. “Now he’s gone crazy again and wants to make you a meal.”

That was it. She’d died and gone to rest in Sothis’s Bosom. “Make me… a meal?” 

Jeralt chuckled. “What can I say? At least the brat’s taking this whole marriage thing seriously.” He frowned. “You don’t look so good though. Something happen in Arianrhod?”

Where to even begin? 

Thankfully her stomach growling saved her, and Jeralt’s laugh echoed throughout the hall. “All right, all right. The mission report can wait; you look half dead as is. Now go and sit.” 

She didn’t have to be told twice, sinking down gratefully into the closest chair. Resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands, she took off her helmet and gauntlets instead, combing through her hair. She wouldn’t be a sight for sore eyes, but she didn’t want to greet her fiance with helmet hair. 

“And the cake will be cooled by then?” a familiar voice asked, and she blinked as she turned to the kitchen door.

Dear Sothis, she really was dead, wasn’t she?

Dimitri lingered in the doorway, his hair tied up into a messier version of the tail he favored for formal events. Black sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows, she stared in pure disbelief as she stared at the rest of the ensemble: worn oven mitts and an apron that had probably once been white but was now stained with all manner of colorful splotches. It was the most casual she had ever seen him, and perhaps the most exposed: she could actually see his forearms, which struck her as significant for some reason.

Then her gaze settled on the platter of food he held, and all thoughts of bare forearms flew from her mind. 

Bright red meat skewers lay on one side of the plate, accompanied by a sizable portion of vegetables and rice. The strong scent of spices wafted towards her, and if her mouth had remained open, drool surely would be puddled on the table by now.

_ You truly are hopeless, _ a snide part of her whispered. 

Dimitri’s eye went wide as he looked at her. Then he smiled, and somehow that was enough to tear her mind from the food for a second. “I must apologize for the delay,” he said, approaching the table. “I had thought we had more time to prepare for your homecoming.”

_ Homecoming.  _ The word didn’t seem as sour anymore. 

“You cooked this?” she asked, still in disbelief. The plating looked gorgeous despite the simplicity of the food itself.

Dimitri flushed. “Ah, yes, well… Dedue was my savior multiple times, as he has always been.” His lips quirked up in a wry smile. “I fear we may have a few more items to tab to wedding expenses.”

“So I heard from the cook.” She made to rise from the chair, but he quickly shook his head.

“Please, take your ease, Byleth.” Carefully, as if it were the finest china, he set the plate in front of her. “You have traveled a long way; I couldn’t ask you to strain yourself.”

Getting up from a table was hardly strenuous, but she slunk back in her seat all the same. “This looks divine,” she said, reaching for a skewer. 

“Ah, the silverware!” She stared blankly as Dimitri rushed back into the kitchen, apron flapping like a cape. The words the head cook had spoken before flashed through her mind: _ “It’s just not right, having a king cook.”  _ The sight of a king running around in an apron into a kitchen like some sort of overtaxed server would probably make her faint; for Byleth, it just filled her with a sort of surreal amusement.

In that moment she realized the dining hall felt too quiet, and when she turned to look around, to her surprise it was empty. 

“I believe Captain Jeralt has afforded you both some measure of privacy.”

Dedue approached the table instead of Dimitri, smiling as he held a pitcher of water and two glasses. “Forgive His Majesty, Your Grace. In his haste, he forgot dining arrangements.” 

“It’s fine,” she said easily. “I’m just surprised that he did all of this. With your help, but still…”

Dedue set down the glasses and pitcher. “Is this not part of the wedding tradition of Faerghus your father spoke of?”

She blinked. “You mean the whole ‘hunt a dangerous animal and skin it and cook it up’ thing?”

His lips twitched. “Something like that, yes.” 

_ Oh. _ Staring at the plate of food, she felt warmer than usual. “You mean he hunted… whatever this is?”

“A giant wolf, yes,” Dedue said, pouring her a glass of water; she took it gratefully, swallowing a few gulps. “Though I shall let him regale you with the tale of his bravery in hunting it.”

A  _ giant wolf. _ Something told her that wasn’t according to tradition.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Dimitri said in a huff, carrying silverware in his hand — he had removed the oven mitts, milky white scars prominent on his fingers. “I didn’t think…” He sighed as he saw the water pitcher. “... about that either.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Byleth said, taking the cutlery from his hands with a weary smile. She frowned as she realized that the two men were empty handed. “Where’s your plates?”

Dimitri paused. “This is for you, Byleth.”

“So?” She folded her arms. “You went to all that trouble to cook this up for me, and you didn’t keep any for yourself?” 

“There is extra,” Dedue said evenly. “In the event that His Majesty was unable to adequately prepare—”

“Good,” Byleth said. “Get yourselves some. We can eat together then.” When Dimitri’s mouth popped open, she added, “I won’t eat until you do.” 

Thankfully there was no protest from either party; Dedue and Dimitri obediently went back into the kitchen, and she leaned back in her chair as she stared at her own plate. The skewers smelled absolutely divine, scarlet juices dripping down onto the plate; the amount of spices in the meat must be intense. The rice was mixed with peas, carrots, and mushrooms, and that too smelled of spice. Roasted potatoes garnished with parsley filled out the rest of the plate, and despite her previous words she had to keep herself from scooping it all into her mouth with her hands. She’d seen more elegant dishes, but this had the distinct air of comfort food, something that a loving parent would give their child after a hard day’s work.

The two men returned quickly enough, though their plates were not as neatly arranged — nor as highly stacked — as hers. She smiled as Dimitri settled down in the chair across from hers, still wearing his apron. Yet Dedue didn’t take a seat. “I shall let Your Majesty and Your Grace dine in private,” he said, bowing his head as he took his leave along with his plate. Dimitri opened his mouth to protest but the Duscurian was already halfway across the room. Byleth raised an eyebrow at that; he was far quicker than she’d expected.

“Well, shall we?” Dimitri said, offering her a small smile as he picked up his fork and knife.

No one had to tell her twice. Scooping up a large forkful of the rice, she shoved it in her mouth and practically melted on the spot: not too spicy, but buttery and rich. The meat was just as tender as she yanked a chunk off the stick with her teeth. “What is this?” she asked after she swallowed, stabbing a potato next.

“A traditional Duscurian recipe,” Dimitri explained; out of the corner of her eye she noticed that he was far more refined with his eating habits, using his fork and knife to slide the meat off the skewer. “Dedue called it ‘shashlik.’”

“It’s incredible.” She had to keep herself from choking as she pulled off two more chunks. “You made this?”

“Well, as I said, Dedue was a great help,” Dimitri said, smiling bashfully. “But yes, I technically did most of the grunt work.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this supposed to be my part of the tradition? Cooking whatever you hunted?”

“Yes. But I…” His shoulders hunched up a bit. “I suppose I wanted to do all of this to thank you. You did not have to investigate the church in Arianrhod, yet you chose to do so anyway.” His smile turned a bit more genuine as he looked her in the eye. “You have my gratitude.”

If this was what his gratitude looked like, then she was even luckier than she’d thought. “You’re welcome,” she said simply, returning his smile before attacking the plate once more. She swore she could have heard him chuckle at her enthusiasm, but the food took up all of her attention.

After clearing her plate, fork and knife clattering to the plate, she took a large gulp of water and wiped her face. Time for business. Easing back in her chair, she folded her hands over her stomach. “So what do you want to talk about first?” she asked. “Arianrhod or your meeting with Grandmother?”

Dimitri’s shoulders shot up, his eye darting to his plate. “You heard about that.”

“I didn’t hear anything.” She frowned. “It was that bad?”

“All things considered, I’ve been told the archbishop was downright cordial,” Dimitri said, running a hand through his hair; a few locks came loose from where he’d tied it back. “She didn’t pull a weapon on me.”

“But she threatened you,” she concluded, a sour taste in her mouth. 

“At the very least, she made her stance on our marriage very clear.” Dimitri smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly a talented verbal sparring partner.” 

_ Considering you’re still sitting here, I’m rather impressed.  _ “What did Rhea say exactly?” she asked.

Dimitri’s face grew grim as he stared at his plate of half eaten food. “That she can annul the marriage at any time if she finds that I am not suitable as a spouse.”

She rose an eyebrow.  _ Quite a bold statement. _ “Anything else?”

“That she has the right to recall you to Garreg Mach at any time, and if I refuse your passage that it will be an act of war.”

She bit back a snort. “Is that all?”

“From what I could gather, yes.” Dimitri’s brow furrowed. “You don’t seem that concerned.”

“What Grandmother told you is technically true,” she explained, taking another sip of wine. “As the archbishop, she can annul our marriage, but she can’t do so apropos of nothing. One of us would have to file an appeal to the church, then there would need to be a tribunal to determine whether an annulment is even possible — our marriage contract would specify that,” she added when Dimitri looked confused. “The process takes months, and it would take even longer if Grandmother tried to annul our marriage without one of us submitting the appeal.” She smiled faintly. “It’s why I had to be careful about who I marry. Aside from the political ramifications if my marriage ended in annulment or divorce, most political unions are designed to be hard to get out of on purpose.”

Strangely this fact did not seem to comfort Dimitri; he folded his arms as he stared at the table, his eye dark. “I see.” But when he looked up at her, the darkness passed. “And recalling you to Garreg Mach?”

“Another technical half truth,” she said, leaning back in her seat as she took a sip of water. “There has to be a clear and specific legal reason for her to order me back here, such as a task only I can fulfill — that only happens once a year, in case you were wondering,” she added. “She can’t do it flippantly, and I can always refuse. Not that that’s a good option most of the time.” She smiled wryly. “Grandmother is used to getting her way, you see.”

Dimitri nodded grimly. “I was made well aware of that fact.” 

“I hope she didn’t cross too many lines,” she said quietly. “She means well most of the time. It’s just that when she comes to family, she’s… protective.”  _ To the point of stiflement.  _

“I understand.” He smiled faintly. “And considering the circumstances, it does look like I’m stealing you away from home.” He winced. “Not that I mean to keep you imprisoned in Fhirdiad, I just…”

“I get it.” She smiled. “Besides, we both agreed to this.”

“We did.” His fingers interlaced as he rested his hands on the table. “So I presume that our marriage is not in imminent danger of dissolution?”

“No,” she reassured. “This is just Grandmother posturing, in case you think you have sole control over my future. As time passes, she’ll relax.” Hopefully.

Dimitri returned her smile, though it was faint. “Then I suppose that’s one less thing to worry about.” His face grew solemn again. “And Arianrhod? Did you discover anything there?”

_ If only we hadn’t. _

“If you don’t wish to discuss it now, I understand,” Dimitri added.

“No. You should hear this now.” Running her hand through her hair, she thought carefully on her next words. Dimitri needed facts, not speculation. “There’s definitely something going on with the church donations. The Western Bishop is siphoning money from them; I don’t know how much, but it’s a significant amount.” 

Dimitri’s lips turned down into a grimace. “As we feared.”

Byleth nodded, rubbing at her eyes. “Unfortunately, he’s not working alone either. The entire Western Church could be compromised, but at bare minimum he has a group helping him forge accounts. He’s also saving up money for something big, and not just personal expenses either.” When Dimitri opened his mouth, she shook her head. “I don’t know what it is. There is a sliver of good news though.”

“And that is?”

“Whatever organization they’re using, they don’t or can’t have people working for them here at Garreg Mach.” The second voice she’d overheard in the Western Bishop’s office had been adamant about that. “And whatever they’re trying to build a fortune for, it’s taking a lot longer than they expected. That gives me time to investigate after the wedding.”

Dimitri nodded, though his eye still held a shadow. “In the meantime, the people will still struggle without aid.” 

“I know. But without knowing how many people are under the bishop’s control, any money we could try to send could be wasted.” 

“Then our priority after the wedding is rooting out the corruption in Arianrhod,” Dimitri concluded. Some of the shadow seemed to lift as he looked at Byleth with a small smile. “I don’t know how to thank you for discovering this.”

“A second plate would be nice,” she said absentmindedly. 

“Oh.” She blinked as Dimitri actually stood up from the table, walking towards the kitchen. “I think that there’s still a good amount of food left. Do you want anything in particular?”

“Anything’s good.” Her eyes widened as Dimitri didn’t emerge for a good long while. “Uh, Dimitri? Everything okay in there?”

“Everything’s fine!” She half expected to hear another plate break, but thankfully Dimitri returned from the kitchen with a new plate all in one piece — and stacked with food. “You mentioned before that you have quite an appetite, so Dedue and I made certain to have plenty of extra,” he explained as he set her new plate down. 

Her face felt a little warm at the words.  _ He actually remembered.  _ “Thank you.” She swallowed down a large forkful of the mushroom rice. “It’s good you did — I actually didn’t get much to eat on the way back.”

“From Arianrhod?” Dimitri’s eye went almost comically wide. “That’s some dozen leagues!”

“It’s all right, really,” she said in between bites. “I just ran a bit short on money so I had to cut some corners with meals — Dimitri?” Her fork clattered to her plate as he vanished back into the kitchen again.  _ What in the world…?  _

When he reemerged with yet another plate of food — not rice or meat, but a large slab of what she assumed was cake — she was torn between laughing or sending a prayer of thanks to Sothis. “You realize that if you keep this up, I won’t be able to fit into my wedding dress,” she noted.

The flush that spread on his face put all his others to shame, and she nearly choked on her shashlik from laughing.

* * *

A week before the ceremony, Dimitri found himself staring at a group of very familiar faces in a rather familiar place.

The Stock Pot Inn had changed some of its decorations — white lilies still decorated the walls and small alcoves, but blue ribbons joined them instead of the green and gold of the church. He had come here to confirm and pay for reservations for three individuals. 

Three individuals that he had missed very,  _ very _ much.

“It’s so good to see you all!” he said, grinning as he approached Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix from the front desk. “Here, let me help you—”

“It’s no trouble, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said with a weary smile as she carried her luggage inside. “We’re merely happy to be out of the carriage.”

“You can say that again.” Felix sighed as he set his bags down for a moment, his back cracking as he twisted. “Goddess, let me just walk next time.”

“And be late for the wedding of the century by three years?” Sylvain joked, his eyes twinkling as he pulled Dimitri into a hug. “That sounds like you, Felix.” Dimitri laughed as the Fraldarius just rolled his eyes, his hand twitching as if to make a rude gesture. 

“Regardless of your manner of arrival, I am truly glad that you are all here,” he said. “The rooms have been paid for; I’ll still be staying in the monastery, but I have plenty of free time. If there’s anything you’d like to do…”

“Sleep,” Felix said curtly. 

“Oh trust me,” Sylvain said, clapping his shoulder; Dimitri’s eye widened at the way his eyebrow bobbed. “I have  _ plenty _ of fun activities planned for—”

“What Sylvain means to say is that we would love to spend time with you, Your Majesty,” Ingrid said tiredly. “But we do not wish to interfere in wedding preparations.”

“Speaking of, where’s your bride to be?” Sylvain asked. 

“Wedding dress fittings,” Dimitri explained. According to Byleth, the process would take most of the day, and she’d urged him and Dedue to not wait for her. Dedue was currently in the monastery’s gardens while Dimitri had come to greet his friends.

“What, and you’re not in there with her?” Sylvain teased. “Don’t you know the first thing about tactics? ‘Survey the enemy territory before you—’”

“That is quite enough, Sylvain,” Ingrid snapped, and Dimitri’s eyes widened at the hostility in her voice. “Why don’t you make yourself _ useful _ and help carry our luggage?” Before Sylvain could protest, Felix had shoved a large bag into his arms and pushed him towards the stairs. Dimitri didn’t know whether to laugh or be worried as he watched them carry their belongings to their rooms — had something happened?

“Ah, don’t mind them,” a familiar voice said, and Dimitri’s eye widened as he saw an older figure step into the inn with his own luggage, a wide smile on his face. “The journey has been rather long for all of us. Exhaustion makes old codgers of us all.”

“Rodrigue!” Dimitri rushed forward, hastily taking the luggage from the man to set it on the ground. “I did not expect you so soon!”

“I would hardly miss your wedding for all the world, my boy,” Rodrigue said, clasping his arm; Dimitri eagerly returned the gesture, then gasped as the older man pulled him down for a firm hug. “Now, before you fret, all in Fhirdiad is in order. Cornelia’s got the kingdom under her sharp eye until you return with your bride.”

The word  _ bride _ filled Dimitri with all sorts of sensations that he couldn’t make heads or tails of; a shiver ran down his spine even as something warm coiled in his chest. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude,” he said, trying his best to gather his thoughts. “The time spent here has been invaluable to me, and to the kingdom.”

“Then that is all the thanks I need,” Rodrigue replied. He smiled. “You look a fair sight happier than when I first broached marriage with the Lady Eisner.” 

Dimitri flushed. “Well, I… Things have changed,” he settled on. “I fear I was rather petulant when you approached me.” 

“No more than a man faced with an unpleasant task would be,” Rodrigue disagreed, shaking his head. “But I trust that the idea is more palatable now that you actually know the lady.” 

“More than palatable.” Dimitri smiled. “I think you would like Byleth a great deal, actually.”

“On first name terms with her already? A good sign.” Rodrigue’s smile only grew wider as he grasped Dimitri’s shoulders. “Ah, look at you, my boy. It feels like yesterday I was helping you pack for the Officer’s Academy. Now here you are: a groom in a week.”

“I still don’t quite feel prepared,” Dimitri confessed, his gaze darting to the floor.

Rodrigue chuckled. “No man does, Your Majesty. No conquest or campaign can even compare to the adventure that is marriage, much less love.” His eyes twinkled. “But I’m sure that you’ll navigate that valley well enough. You’ve got more of Lambert in you than you realize. Goddess, if he could see you now…”

Despite the intended praise, Dimitri’s stomach twisted. His father  _ could _ see him now, and his view of his son was far dimmer than Rodrigue believed.

“But enough of that,” Rodrigue continued, before the whispers could begin. “Not every part of royal weddings is stale tradition. Sylvain wants to take you out for a night on the town to celebrate before you tie the knot. I’m told he knows quite the array of spectacles here at Garreg Mach!” His smile widened, voice dropping to a conspiratory whisper. “But don’t worry about that too much. I’ll make sure the only vice you’ll have to indulge in is good food, drink, and the company of friends.”

“Thank you, Rodrigue,” he breathed sincerely — knowing Sylvain, the “spectacles” he wanted to show them could range from a high class restaurant to something decidedly  _ less _ classy.

“It’s no trouble. Boy reminds me of his father, as much as you of yours.” Rodrigue’s smile faded. “Speaking of relations, your uncle travelled with us.” 

Foreboding settled in Dimitri’s stomach like a rock. “Where is he staying?” He hadn’t made arrangements for him, unlike his friends. Rufus would not have appreciated the gesture anyway.

“The Gilded Lily. I’ve got eyes on him, so you needn’t worry about it. But he’s in a foul mood.” 

To be frank, Dimitri had never seen his uncle in a  _ good _ mood, but if Rodrigue had to mention it, then matters were more severe. “What is it?”

“Apparently back when he was regent, he sent a missive to Lady Eisner. It wasn’t a serious proposal like yours, but he was rejected outright.” Dimitri’s eye widened — he’d never heard of this before. Rodrigue released Dimitri’s shoulders, his lips a heavy slant. “I worry that he may bear some resentment. For the uncle to fail and the nephew to prevail… Well, he already has enough enmity to last him a lifetime.”

“I see.” Dimitri folded his arms. “And he plans to attend the ceremony?” He’d invited him, of course — to not do so would raise more eyebrows than Rufus’s behavior — but his missive back had clearly been written by a longsuffering scribe. 

“If not, then he’ll definitely be at the feasts. Resentment won’t be enough to drive him away from a good Garreg Mach vintage.” Rodrigue sighed, running a hand over his stubble. “I’m sorry, my boy. I will do all I can so that you don’t have to worry about Rufus. You deserve to have happiness on your wedding day.” 

“I appreciate it, Rodrigue.” His uncle’s behavior had been curtailed to Itha once Dimitri had inherited the throne, and they had no correspondence — though his station dictated that he be allowed to attend all feast days and celebrations in Fhirdiad, Rufus’s court appearances were few and far in between. When he did appear, he was rarely sober and never sought Dimitri out. Though the distance between them pained Dimitri somewhat, it was for the best: any conversation they could have would not end well. Family meant little to Rufus. He had never married nor taken a long term lover; Dimitri had heard rumors that his mistresses counted somewhere in the dozens, and if he did have a child, he’d never named one as his heir. 

The last two Blaiddyds alive, and they could be no more different, nor distant.

_ Soon, that will change. After the wedding, Byleth will be a Blaiddyd. _ The thought filled him with equal measures of warmth and anxiety. 

It also reminded him of what he’d sent to Rodrigue in his last missive. “Is the wedding contract up to date?” he asked.

“I’ve made the necessary changes.” Rodrigue eyed him warily. “Though I must admit, all of these provisions are a bit… unorthodox. Are you sure they’re necessary, Your Majesty?”

“They are.” He didn’t add that most of them were to hopefully appease the Archbishop as much as possible. That, and…

Perhaps it was an overly romantic notion. But he did not want the start of his marriage to be a tangled web of bureaucracy and fine print. Byleth was a straightforward and honest person. It was the least he could do to act in kind. 

“Are you two  _ still _ talking?” Sylvain’s voice called out, and Dimitri grunted as he felt a heavy hand clap him on the shoulder. “Come on, this is your last week as a free man! We’ve got to live a little!”

Rodrigue chuckled as Felix also reappeared, his scowl so stormy Dimitri could practically feel lightning sparking from his face; Ingrid followed close behind down the stairs. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. This old man won’t take up any more of your time.”

“It was no bother at all, Rodrigue,” Dimitri said, shooting Sylvain a pointed glare. “In fact, I hope we can converse more in the future.”

“You’ll have time for that in Fhirdiad, Your Majesty,” Sylvain said glibly, shaking his shoulder. “Now come on, we’ve got a bachelor party to plan.”

Dimitri sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sylvain—” 

_ “You _ do not get to complain,” Felix hissed, jabbing a finger at him. “You were not stuck in a carriage with him for a  _ week _ listening to him come up with the most foolish,  _ ridiculous _ plans.” Even Ingrid’s face belied her exhaustion, her eyes grim. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For…?” Dimitri said slowly.

“For us forbidding Sylvain from making you participate in all of the activities that would have sullied your reputation,” Ingrid said dryly. Felix rested his hand on his sword’s hilt. “By pain of death.”

“Hey, not  _ all _ of them were that bad!” Sylvain complained. “Only like  _ three _ of them actually involved him losing his vir—”

“Thank you!” Dimitri said loudly, his face seared scarlet. “Felix, Ingrid,  _ thank you.” _ To his utter mortification Rodrigue had to stifle a laugh in front of him, and Dimitri couldn’t resist the urge to bury his face in his hands.

Goddess preserve him, he had no idea how he was going to survive the week.

* * *

Byleth had used her sitting room for many things: tea time, a private study, even a training room when she’d been younger. She’d never thought that it would be here that she would sign her first — and hopefully only — marriage contract.

Dimitri sat to her side at the tea table, where a small service had been cleared away just moments before. Two scribes stood nearby, akin to chaperones as Dimitri’s regent, Rodrigue Fraldarius, sat opposite. He held a kindly air to him; in a way, he reminded her strongly of Seteth. “I trust that this contract is to your liking, Your Grace?” he asked, his hands folded on the table as he looked at the both of them.

Byleth looked over the document once more, though she already knew all of its contents. She’d studied them acutely before giving them to Grandmother, as well as asked Seteth look it over. While he was no legal genius, as a clerical expert he knew most contractual terms and twists like the back of his own hand.

Both of their reviews came back positive, almost glowing. “It is a standard contract,” Seteth had said. “Though one that is surprisingly… generous.”

It was more than generous, it was downright empowering. A few months ago, she would have been deeply suspicious of such a non binding contract. Having reviewed a few in the past as research for her own nuptials, most were eloquently worded documents with pretty turns of phrase that hid the true nature of the obligations listed. 

Yet the contract before her was almost shocking in its simplicity. While her dowry would be entrusted to the royal treasury for the duration of the marriage, her inheritance was owned by her solely. There was no section on providing an heir at all. As Dimitri’s queen she had the right to command the kingdom’s army without his express permission or approval. Lawmaking was more restricted, but given her place as the Church of Seiros’s future leader this didn’t come as a surprise. She wasn’t required to be in Fhirdiad, or even Faerghus, for military commands to retain efficacy. If she wished, she could just stay here in Garreg Mach and her authority would be just as valid as if she sat upon the throne in Castle Blaiddyd.

Divorce grounds were just as simple, if not simplistic. Either spouse could submit an appeal to the Church, with or without a clear reason. Though the marriage was contractually binding for five years, it could be annulled before that time if signs of abuse of power or spouse were found. 

Frankly, the contract unnerved her. Instead of trying to trap her in a permanent arrangement with Dimitri, it gave her almost as much power as he held with few caveats. If anything, Dimitri was the one at a disadvantage here. If she decided to simply lie and trump up a few false charges, she could withdraw her remaining dowry and leave, and Faerghus would remain right where it was: struggling to claw its way out of poverty. Instead of guile, this document was soaked in desperation. 

Or, perhaps, trust. 

“It is quite to my liking,” she said quietly.

Lord Fraldarius smiled. “Excellent. Then if you would both sign both copies at the bottom — one will remain here at Garreg Mach, the other will be sent to Fhirdiad along with the wedding convoy. The contract will not take effect until tomorrow’s ceremony and your coronation is completed, Your Grace.” 

Two inkwells and quills lay in front of them both, gilded and ornate. The quill felt heavy in her hand as she picked it up, inking the nib. “You first?” she asked Dimitri.

He nodded, and she noticed how gingerly he held his quill in hand as he signed his name. The nib moved slowly across the paper, each letter of his signature stark and bold. His motions carried a sort of reverence to them, or perhaps apprehension. When he finished, he smiled faintly at her before replacing the quill. 

Placing the tip of the nib to the parchment, she felt a weight on her shoulders that she hadn’t expected. Despite her willingness to marry Dimitri — she would even call it desire at this point — this moment still felt foreboding to her. Almost more binding than the words she would speak tomorrow, this document would tie her to Dimitri legally, make their marriage official. She’d been waiting for this moment ever since she came of age, yet now it was actually happening. The last step of preparation before they married each other tomorrow.

It was a strange mix of disbelief and impending reality that filled her as she signed her name below Dimitri’s. The feeling only grew as she looked down at their names: Byleth Eisner and Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

For the first time, she felt as if they didn’t match. As if her name didn’t belong on that paper, so short and simple next to his.

Slowly, carefully, she replaced the quill in its inkwell, and the moment passed as Lord Fraldarius’s smile widened. “Thank you, Your Majesty, Your Grace,” he said, rising from his chair; they both stood as well, Dimitri giving the man a firm clasp of the arm. “And once more, I give you my congratulations.”

Dimitri smiled warmly at the man — his fondness for the duke was clear to see. “Thank you, Rodrigue. About what I asked for…?”

“Already on its way,” Rodrigue confirmed. 

The sheets were gathered by two scribes and Lord Rodrigue bid them farewell. When the door clicked shut, Byleth rubbed her eyes. Looking at such small print — even if the document had been rather short — always wrecked havoc on her eyes, and she’d forgotten to get her glasses. 

“Are you all right?” Dimitri asked, and she blinked as she looked up at him; she thought he’d left with the others. 

“Fine,” she said, giving him a weary smile. “Just a bit tired.” To her surprise a knock came at the door, and she watched as Dimitri crossed the room to answer it. She rose from her chair, resisting the urge to crack her back; Dad always scolded her when she did that. “You’re expecting something?”

“Oh! Yes,” he said, opening the door. A man dressed in Faerghan livery greeted him; Dimitri’s body blocked most of her view, but when he turned around after the knight departed, she spotted a small box in his hands. “This is actually for you,” he confessed, approaching her. As he drew closer, she saw that it was actually a chest, dark wood inlaid with golden filigree.

“For me?” she repeated skeptically. “What for?”

He smiled, blue eye twinkling in the sunlight that streamed in from the window. “Is there some other grand occasion that I should know about?”

Ah. “You really don’t have to get me a wedding present,” she said, playing a bit with her skirts. The idea wasn’t unpleasant, but she didn’t want Dimitri spending money on something just for her. He didn’t seem the frivolous type — his dinner he’d prepared for her had been refreshingly simple and practical — but perhaps there was some sort of other Faerghan wedding tradition that he was following.

“It’s not really a wedding present,” Dimitri clarified. “Perhaps we could sit? It bears a bit of of an explanation.”

Eyebrow raised in curiosity, she retreated with him to the couch, sinking into the plush cushions. He joined her, looking down at the chest with a reverent eye; clearly this meant something significant to him. “This is the crown you will wear tomorrow for the coronation,” he said. “I wanted to show it to you before tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m honored.” The chest seemed so small to bear a crown; perhaps it was more of a circlet or a hair ornament. “It has a history, I presume.”

“A very old history,” Dimitri said, an eager gleam in his eye. She smiled at the look; it seemed so rare that he was unabashedly  _ excited _ about something. “This crown dates back to Loog, the first king of Faerghus, and his beloved queen Rhiannon. His own crown was lost in the Crescent Moon War, but the Eternal Flower crown survives. It’s one of the only relics from that age to still exist.”

“The Eternal Flower crown?”  _ A strange name for a crown. _

“That is its name. It’s said that Loog loved his wife so much that he wanted to give her flowers that would last forever,” Dimitri explained, holding the chest as if it were made of the most fragile glass. “In Faerghus the growing season is short, and flowers often struggle to grow. So for his coronation, he contracted the best smiths in the kingdom to weave flowers of gold and jewels together for his beloved. I’d say that out of all the crown jewels in Faerghus, none have a greater value or history.” Carefully he unlatched the chest, then proffered it to her. 

“Is there a reason you’re not opening it?” she asked, confused as he simply waited there expectantly.

“Oh! I’m sorry; it’s just tradition that only queens are allowed to handle the Eternal Flower crown except for a coronation,” he said. “And with the strength of my crest…” He smiled bashfully. “You can see how that would be a bad idea.”

She chuckled. “Right.” With due reverence, she lifted the lid of the small chest.

Then stared wide-eyed and slack jawed.

Dimitri had explained it as golden flowers weaved together, but somehow that didn’t do it justice at all. An enormous sapphire gleamed in the middle; it was easily the size of a robin’s egg, wrapped with rose gold. Leaves studded with diamonds formed the circlet, blossoms with slivers of sapphire peeking out from the wrought vines. It literally looked as if someone had made a flower crown then covered it in molten gold, replacing petals with jewels. 

It reminded her of the circlets and headdresses Rhea wore: gold and glittering and divine, made for only the best. It was a crown for a queen, a lady of elegance and grace and…

_ Not for you. _

“Dimitri, I…” The slim crown looked so delicate — even without possessing a crest of Blaiddyd, she didn’t want to touch it for fear of breaking it. “I truly am honored. But I can’t wear this.”

“Why not?” Dimitri asked, frowning. “I know that Faerghus is a humble country. Our riches pale in comparison to—”

“No, it’s not that,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s beautiful. More than beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.” It was a far cry from most royal jewels she’d seen illustrated in texts from the library, heavy and cold and overwrought. “It’s just… I don’t feel worthy of wearing such a thing.” The sapphires and diamonds cast rainbows from the sunlight around the room, radiant reflections that filled the room with color. “It’s so beautiful, and I…” 

It felt silly, saying all of this. She wouldn’t consider herself insecure by any means: she could politick well enough and handle a sword better. She was well read in Fódlan’s history, perhaps more than anyone else, and despite not fulfilling Rhea’s highest hope she was heir to the seat of Archbishop. That meant something.

But in this moment, just like when she looked at Dimitri’s long flowing script above hers, she felt out of place. Foreign, separate. Other.

No, not just out of place.  _ Not enough. _

It wasn’t a new feeling, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant.

“Byleth.” When she looked up at Dimitri, he had a strange sort of smile on his face. Sort of like the smile her dad gave her when she complained about boot blisters or bland rations when they were out on missions. “You are worthy. Trust me. This crown may be beautiful, but you—” He paused, his eye falling closed. “Forgive me. I was about to say something improper.”

“You realize you have to tell me what it is now, right?” she said, smiling wryly as his cheeks bloomed from pink to red. 

“It’s just that…” He swallowed. “I was going to say that no crown in the world could compare to your beauty.” 

_ Oh. _ “That’s… very kind of you,” she replied, her own cheeks growing warm. It was a standard enough compliment; she’d read and heard almost every variation in her proposals. But from Dimitri, it felt… different. A good kind of different. It carried weight.

“I mean it,” Dimitri insisted, his body leaning forward in a sort of boyish earnestness that brought a sparkle to his eye. “I’m no master of flattery, but I try to speak truthfully no matter the circumstance. I truly think you’re beautiful, Byleth.” His eye glanced down at the crown nestled in the chest. “Next to you I’m an eyesore in comparison.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.” She wasn’t a great judge of such things, but Dimitri was handsome: strong jaw yet delicate features. Women would fawn over the shade of blue of his eye or something like that, she was sure.

He smiled ruefully. “I am no great work of beauty, Byleth. Even if it were something I sought after, I’m afraid anyone who wished to improve my appearance would find me a flawed canvas.” The words were spoken with no bitterness, no added weight. Yet his eye grew dark. “There are flaws that can’t be concealed. I have a great deal of those.”

“So?” Her hand brushed his cheek, feeling the heat radiating from his skin at the touch. “I don’t think you’re an eyesore, Dimitri. Trust me, most of the monks and nuns don’t think so either.” She smiled as he coughed bashfully, still unable to look her in the eye. “It’s true that you’re banged up a bit, but the best swords often are. It means they’ve served and defended very well.” With a flash of bravery, her thumb brushed the bottom edge of his eyepatch.

Then she cringed when he flinched, hearing the sharp intake of breath pass through his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she said instantly, pulling back her hand. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Please, don’t.” Dimitri sighed, his eye finally meeting hers. “I should apologize. I… I’m not used to people touching me. Especially there.” His lips curled up into a smile again, this one much smaller. “Most people aren’t exactly fond of a man with an eyepatch.” 

“Well, you’ll find that I’m not like most people,” she replied lightly. “And they say that the only person’s opinion that truly matters is your spouse.” People said that, right? 

Dimitri’s smile widened, though his eye wouldn’t meet hers. “You’re too kind.”

“Is that such a horrible thing in a marriage?” she said lightly.

“I suppose not.” Carefully he closed the box holding the crown, then stowed it away on the table. “I mean no offense by this, but tomorrow feels like a dream. I can hardly believe it’s actually happening.”

She nodded absently, sinking back into the couch cushions. Preparing for the wedding, ironically, hadn’t really given her time to absorb the reality of it. The flowers and food and ribbons, perhaps. Not the vows and the promises made and whether they would actually be kept. But now when there was nothing to do, that was all her mind could focus on. Dimitri must feel similarly; he sank down next to her, his shoulders caving forward, and she spotted him clasping and unclasping his hands in his lap. 

Tomorrow. They would wed tomorrow. She would walk into the cathedral, exchange vows, and kiss—

Oh _ shit. _

“Dimitri?” she asked, sitting up.

“Yes?”

“Have you ever kissed someone before?”

Predictably enough, he blushed. “I… No. I haven’t.”

Damn.  _ Well, that’s not good. _ She’d hoped one of them would have experience. “Me neither,” she murmured, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth.

Another awkward silence stretched between them; she could practically feel the heat radiating from Dimitri’s face as he bounced his knee. 

Then: “Why do you ask?” His voice was tentative, yet… hopeful? Or maybe she was reading into it too much. Something told her that relentlessly analyzing everything her fiance said was not a step towards building a healthy marriage. 

“It’s just that we’re going to kiss tomorrow in front of everyone,” she explained. “It’s, uh… It’s a lot of pressure.” While there hopefully wouldn’t be any nonsense of people trying to sketch or portrait that moment, they would still be watched by over a thousand people. It felt a bit unfair that her first moment of intimacy with her husband — her first kiss with  _ anyone _ — would be in front of a crowd who could judge her awkwardness however they pleased. 

Unless…

“We should practice,” she said, looking at Dimitri.

“P-Practice?” Though his cheeks were still red, his eye wasn’t wide with shock. “You mean… practice kissing?”

“Yeah. For the ceremony tomorrow.” She cringed; was that too heartless to say? “We don’t have to, if you don’t want.” He’d kissed her forehead, but that had been weeks ago. Maybe that was just his way of saying goodbye. Maybe physical intimacy wasn’t something he wanted. Or at least  _ practiced _ physical intimacy, stilted and awkward and forced. 

“If you wish to practice, I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea,” Dimitri said slowly.

Some bit of tension that pinned up her shoulders released. “Oh. All right.” She swallowed, standing up from the sofa. “We’ll, uh, we’ll be standing like this.” She had no idea why she was babbling — they’d already rehearsed everything about the ceremony three times, save for the kissing, of course. Dimitri obediently stood across from her, taking her hands in his own. “And uh, we say our vows, Rhea pronounces us man and wife, ‘you may kiss the bride…’” He nodded, then bit his lip as he looked down at her. 

The moment of truth. 

And while staring up at Dimitri, she realized something very obvious but very dangerous to their practice.

“You’re so damn tall,” she muttered, craning her neck to look up at him. How the hell was she supposed to reach up and kiss him when he was almost a good head taller than she was? She wouldn’t be wearing heels tomorrow either — the last time she’d tried, she’d nearly snapped her ankle in two and spilled wine all over Seteth’s shirt. 

Dimitri winced. “I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s not your fault, I just…” Byleth chuckled ruefully. “It’s not like I can stand on a stool, you know?”

His face split into a grin, raising a hand to his lips. “I, uh…” He coughed, though that did nothing to mask the laugh he let out. “Here, let me bend down.” Except when he did that, he looked like a hunchback with how far he had to lean. His hands fell on her shoulders for balance, and she couldn’t help but snicker at the look of alarm on his face. “S-Sorry.”

“I think we’re going to have to work together for this one,” she said, helping him get back upright. “So you lean down, I stand on my toes, and we… connect.”  _ I hope. _

“Right.” His hands still lingered on her shoulders, pink dusting his cheeks. 

Goddess, how did anyone do this  _ naturally _ the first time? Granted, most people were teenagers, or even children when they kissed someone — awkwardness came with the territory. But she was a fully grown adult, having her first kiss.

It was more than a little embarrassing.

“On three?” she asked.

Dimitri nodded mutely.

“Okay. One.”

Would she miss if she closed her eyes?

“Two.”

She could feel the quiver of his hands on her shoulders.

“Three.”

Closing her eyes, she bobbed up on the tip of her toes … and promptly gasped as an explosion of pain rocketed across her teeth.

_ Well, that didn’t work. _

“Oh goddess! Are you all right?” Dimitri’s hands flew to her cheeks, holding her face in place as he looked at her with so much alarm she could have laughed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

Running her tongue over her teeth, she shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. No blood drawn at the very least, though her teeth still stung. “It’s, uh, a good thing we’re practicing, right?”

Poor Dimitri looked like he wanted to melt through the floor, but he nodded. “Are you hurt?” he asked, a gloved thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “My crest didn’t activate, but still…” 

“I’m fine,” she repeated, though the thought of his crest activating during  _ kissing _ was an amusingly terrifying thought. “I think we both just put too much power behind it?” It didn’t help that she felt like she had to jump to meet Dimitri’s face, and considering he’d bent down to kiss her… 

Well, as she said, it was a good thing they were practicing. 

“Perhaps we should sit down,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “To make things easier.” 

“Very good idea.” It was a bit embarrassing that she hadn’t thought of that. 

Easing back down onto the couch cushions, the height difference wasn’t nearly as large. She turned, kneeling on the cushions to face him; Dimitri’s torso twisted to do the same, though his legs were far too long to tuck underneath him. “Like this?” he asked hesitantly. She shrugged, unsure of what to do. 

“Maybe if you just… did it?” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “That way we don’t collide again.” Her teeth still stung a bit.

He nodded quickly. “Then, um… Could you close your eyes?” he asked.

Oh. Right. She nodded and closed them, then waited. Should she pucker? That seemed a bit too much, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she was  _ supposed _ to do.

Then something warm and wet settled on her mouth and she froze. 

In an instant the sensation fled, and she opened her eyes to see Dimitri pulling back from her face, his hands pressed to the couch cushions. “How was that?” he asked, his teeth worrying his lower lip. “Too long or…?”

“No,” she said. “It was good. Just a bit wet.” Something told her she shouldn’t wipe her mouth, but she felt the urge to.

“O-Oh.” She winced as he glanced away, clearly trying to hide his flushed face. “Sorry, I… I’ve never done this before.”

“Neither have I,” she murmured in response, staring at her lap. 

Frankly, it felt like a bit of a letdown. So many stories and ballads she’d listened to described the first kiss as magical, like a lightning bolt piercing your heart or a fire burning in your veins. At least some sort of spark, maybe a blush on the cheeks. Yet sitting here, she didn’t really feel… anything. Not for lack of Dimitri’s trying; the problem didn’t lie with him, though he couldn’t know that.

So many times Grandmother had reassured her that her lack of heartbeat meant nothing when it came to her emotions. Logically, she knew this was true. No pulse didn’t mean no emotions; she still felt, just as everyone else did.

But sitting here now, not for the first time, she wondered if she wasn’t missing more than just a heartbeat.

_ Try again, _ something deep inside her whispered.

Maybe she was being too passive in this. Her hand lifted from her lap, and Dimitri’s breath hitched as she touched his cheek, brushing back some strands of hair — his skin was soft beneath her fingertips, no ragged stubble or leathery feeling like her father’s. Silently she leaned forward, closing her eyes as she pressed her mouth to his.

Or, well, tried to. Her actual point of contact was somewhere slightly to the right, an awkward peck that landed half on his lips, half on his jaw. It was nowhere near as graceful as Dimitri’s kiss, and the stiffness of his face showed how well he knew that. Pulling back with a jerk, her hands curled into fists as she stared at her lap. “See?” she said, though she couldn’t actually meet his eyes. “I’m no good at it either.”

Twenty six years old and she didn’t know how to kiss. It wasn’t the worst of her failures, but it was up there.

Something soft brushed her chin — a gloved finger — and she blinked as her head tilted up to meet Dimitri’s gaze. His eye stared softly down at her, a look that held no pity or judgement. “Then it’s a good thing we’re practicing, isn’t it?” he said softly, smiling gently. 

Using her own words against her.  _ He’s a clever one. _

Yet somehow, it made her feel better. At least they were stumbling through this together instead of him being impatient at her lack of progress. His eye was kind, thumb running across the curve of her jaw as he looked down at her with that soft smile. As if all was right in the world, this moment all he needed.

She didn’t realize how nice it was, having someone look at her like that.

“Shall we try again?” he asked, and she nodded, closing her eyes.

This kiss wasn’t really that different from the one before — same gentle brush of lips, though this one wasn’t as wet — yet Dimitri didn’t pull away immediately. Instead his forehead pressed against hers, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. There he stayed, breath warm against her skin. 

And somehow, something shifted in that moment, fluttering in her chest. It was like when he’d kissed her forehead before she’d gone to Arianrhod, when the entire world had shrunk down to just her and him standing there in the cold. Time stood still, the seconds slowing in a peaceful haze.

Perhaps that was what made a kiss special. Not the act of lips touching, but the closeness of it. That feeling of being alone together, of intimacy.

There wouldn’t be any of that tomorrow. This would be the only moment they would have. So for now, she didn’t pull away. She kept her eyes closed and her forehead pressed to Dimitri’s. 

And breathed.

“Byleth?” he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Are you all right?”

Opening her eyes, she realized he was staring at her; she pulled away. “Yes. Sorry.” That was probably a little too strange.

He smiled, his thumb running over her cheek in a slow, steady rhythm. “Better?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I just… I’m still getting the hang of it.” Swallowing, she stood up from the couch. “But we’ll be standing tomorrow.”

“Right.” He joined her on his feet, once more grasping both her hands. “How do you propose we solve the height problem?” 

She bit back a snort; he made it sound like they were on the battlefield or in a parliament chamber. Biting her lip, she slid one hand out of his to rest her chin on. “I think last time we both put too much force behind it,” she said. “So if we move one at a time instead of at the same time…” Experimentally she rocked up on the balls of her feet. “So I’d go up, and then you come down.” 

“And your balance?” he asked.

A good point; was this really his first time kissing? He was clearly the more skilled one between them. “Well, I guess you could just hold me,” she said. A stuttered breath passed his lips as she took his hands, pressing them to his waist. “Like that, maybe. Though I did like it when you touched my face…” 

As if to mirror her statement, his fingers alighted on her cheek, resting so delicately on her skin that it felt he was handling porcelain. “Like… Like this?” he asked hesitantly.

“Perfect.” Taking in a deep breath, she stood on her tiptoes. “Ready?”

“Mm.” Closing her eyes, she waited for his lips to touch hers… then let out an unsteady gasp when his arm pulled her in close, her hands pressing to his chest for balance. “Ah, sorry! Sorry!” He winced. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine.” Blinking a few times, she realized that they were actually in a quasi hug, his arm around her waist.  _ Huh. _ “I think this actually works better,” she confessed, leaning back on his arm. “Least I won’t have to worry about falling.”

Despite the blush on his face, his smile practically beamed. “I would never let you fall. I promise.” 

Again, something in her chest fluttered, and her mind momentarily went blank. 

“Yes, uh… Thank you.” Shaking her head, she looked back up at him. “Now you just have to lean down…?”

“Oh, right!” She didn’t have time to close her eyes before he kissed her. Her eyes went wide as his mouth pressed to hers with far more weight than before. This was no simple brush of lips; her breath caught in her throat as his hand slid to the back of her head, cradling her against him. Her fingers curled in his shirt, though she was in no danger of falling, and she shivered as he lingered on her lips

_ Oh. _

It was far too intimate for a wedding kiss, her essentially swooped up in his arms like this. But she liked it more than the chaste pecks they’d shared.

A  _ lot  _ more.

Inevitably when they parted, he couldn’t meet her eyes. “That was too much, wasn’t it?” he murmured; his voice was breathy and once more her mind went blank at the sound. 

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice coming out in a strange sort of whisper; she hardly recognized the sound.

Slowly, carefully, he set her back down on the floor; she hadn’t even realized her feet had left it until they touched the hard stone. “Forgive me,” he said, his head downcast. “I did not mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” She flashed him a smile. “That’s why we’re practicing, right?”

A soft breath passed his lips, almost a huff of laughter. “Yes,” he agreed, his own smile much more hesitant. “Indeed.” He once more grasped her hands. “This seems safer.”

“Yeah.” It was a peculiar choice of words, but she agreed. “Here, one more try.”

Once more she rolled up on the balls of her feet; once more he descended, and once more they shared a soft, chaste kiss. It was perfect: she wasn’t pressed to his body, his hands clasping her own, and neither of them lingered for too long. A good, safe wedding kiss.

_ A shame the last one was better. _

She pushed that thought to the back of her mind; this was just practicing. “Perfect,” she said, smiling up at him. “I think we’re actually getting the hang of this.”

He laughed, louder and more sure this time. “A rough start notwithstanding.”

She shrugged. “Better late than never?”

“Mm.” He hesitated, then continued: “Although considering how many people will be watching us tomorrow… perhaps more practice would do us good?” 

“Couldn’t hurt,” she said. 

And so they continued. Byleth’s legs had never gotten such a good workout as she rolled up and down on the balls of her feet. They shifted Dimitri’s hands every so often, changed the angle of their faces as they connected. It felt a bit like practicing sword forms: adjusting minor flaws in position, getting the muscle memory down. This felt a lot better than that, of course.

“Do… Do you think that’s enough practice?” Dimitri asked when he pulled away with a slight  _ pop, _ his voice a touch breathless as he looked down at her. 

Probably. But Dad always told her that more practice was never a bad thing.

“One more try?” she asked.

He smiled, his eye twinkling as he looked down at her, and that  _ something  _ shifted in her chest again, like a bird’s wing fluttering against her ribs. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, now that she’d gotten used to it. 

As their lips met once more, she wondered if that was what it was like to have a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE! I AM NOT DEAD, Y'ALL!
> 
> First off, my supremest, largest apologies to all of you for the insane delay. I had promised myself I'd have this chapter finished before school started back up, but obviously that didn't happen (I blame a friend getting me into Final Fantasy XIV). Then my computer's battery decided to kick the bucket and it took two weeks to repair. Needless to say, I was very excited to get it back and working on Seeking Sirius was my highest priority!
> 
> The food Dimitri and Dedue prepared is actually one of my favorite meals from a restaurant I would eat at frequently in Latvia. Shashlik is more commonly known as a shish kebab and while it's Persian in nature, it has been adopted by Eastern Europe, as well as rice. Potatoes are much more European, but I felt it fit Duscur's culinary nature to have such a dish with mixed origins. It's also insanely delicious and writing about such food gave me serious cravings. 
> 
> In case you were wondering what the last part of the chapter would be like from Dimitri's POV, it's basically [internal screaming] and "You're not allowed to have bad self esteem, that's MY job!" alternating back and forth.
> 
> Yes, next chapter is the wedding! I'm excited to share it with y'all; thanks so much for your patience and your views, comments, and kudos. It means the world to me.


	13. Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is a day that would normally be considered the happiest moment of one's life. That is, if one wasn't involved in a marriage of convenience.
> 
> Still, to be able to find joy in the small moments is a feat in and of itself.
> 
> CW/TW: Rufus Blaiddyd (verbal sexual harassment), intrusive thoughts

Dimitri’s hands trembled as he stared at himself in the mirror.

It felt like a stranger stared back at him: a man in bright shining armor and a deep blue cloak, furs elegantly draped on his shoulders. A man who bore the silver circlet on his head proudly, who was calm and composed and ready for the day.

Rodrigue had told him that no man was truly ready on his wedding day. The thought wasn’t as comforting as he intended for it to be. 

He supposed that he had at least one matter in his favor: his bachelor party had been blessedly tame. All that had transpired last night was a simple trip to a local tavern to eat and converse with friends. To Sylvain’s eternal disappointment, Dimitri hadn’t even drank a single drop of alcohol — there was absolutely no chance he would risk not being sober to his own wedding.

Though perhaps it would keep his hands from shaking.

His fingers rested on the brooch and pin fastening the cloak around his shoulders. Shaped like a lion’s head with a spear between its teeth, it was part of the ensemble. This armor set had belonged to his father, and his father before him. Silvery white, the crest of Blaiddyd proudly emblazoned on the front of the breastplate, he practically glowed in the sunlight. 

Though it fit him perfectly well — he had worn this suit to his own coronation, and it had been carefully adjusted throughout the years — he still felt awkward inside of it.

_ You should not wear something so clean.  _

Staring down at his gloved hands, he swallowed thickly. His father hadn’t worn this suit of armor that day, but he’d always dressed similarly: the bright lion of Faerghus, noble and proud and strong. But when the fires burned and the attack started, Dimitri could only see him covered in blood and ashes.

_ How can you be her husband with those hands? No matter how much blood you wash away, you cannot change your strength. Your nature. _

_ You should have told her to run away. Spare herself the pain and misery.  _

_ When will you lose her too, Dimitri? When will her blood mix with ours? _

“Dimitri,” and he jerked up to see Dedue standing at the door, dressed in his own suit of silver armor; his Duscurian scarf proudly draped across his shoulders. “It is time.”

Heart quivering in his chest, he took in a deep breath and nodded. The voices still chattered — it seemed they would not leave him alone even on his wedding day — but he curled his hands into fists and focused on Dedue, following him out of the preparation room.

Garlands of white lilies and blue ribbons decorated the halls as they walked, Dedue leading the way for once. Dimitri had chosen him as his escort — while it was more traditional to pick a family member, his only option was not an option at all, and Rodrigue was busy securing the eternal flower crown. 

Dedue was like a brother to him; there was no one else he would rather have lead him to his wedding altar. 

“Dedue?” he whispered, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his cloak. “Am I making a mistake?”

To his eternal credit, Dedue didn’t even break his pace, though he did turn and look at Dimitri with a raised eyebrow. “What makes you think this is a mistake, Your Majesty?”

_ So many things. _ “You know me well, Dedue. Perhaps better than I know myself. So tell me, and speak honestly.” Dimitri forced himself to look his best friend in the eye. “Will I make a good husband for Byleth?”

His heart twisted when Dedue didn’t answer right away, his expression contemplative.  _ Even he doubts you,  _ Stepmother whispered.  _ And why shouldn’t he? It’s as you said — he knows you best. He knows what you truly are. _

“I believe you have answered your own question simply by asking it, Your Majesty,” Dedue said quietly, a small smile on his lips.

Dimitri blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“A man who only cares for wealth or power would not care about the happiness of his spouse. He would only care about outside appearances. But you have always cared deeply, Your Majesty, and not just for those who can directly benefit you. Others may call that a weakness; I call it a great strength. Despite it serving no immediate use to you, you wish to make Her Grace happy. Is that not so?”

“Well, yes, but…” He stared at the polished stones beneath his feet, trying to gather his thoughts. “Am I truly worthy of her?”

“As worthy as any other man.” Dedue paused, then added, “It is in my experience that the best relationships are not found — they are built, brick by brick and stone by stone each day. When we met, we could hardly understand each other, yet you still reached out to me and befriended me. If you do the same for Her Grace, then I cannot see an issue rising between you that can’t be mended.”

The words were a surprising comfort to Dimitri, regardless of the whispers that dug into him. Dedue was a man who spoke his truth — though he was wary about giving advice, Dimitri could trust him to not lie.

All too quickly, they drew close to the doors of the cathedral, and Dimitri paused for a moment, hand balling in the cloth of his cloak.

_ Goddess, let this day go well. For your archbishop’s scion, if not for me. _

His faith in the Goddess was a frail thing: a wan plant on the verge of wilting. But for today, he would take whatever assistance he could get — divine or otherwise.

Those seated in the pews of the cathedral rose as Dimitri passed them by, bowing and curtseying to him. He nodded to them as he passed, listening as the choirs in the rostrum above sang praises and hymns. The sound was soothing, despite his nerves as he looked at those in attendance: lords and ladies from all three nations, some not even bothering to mask their discontent at the proceedings. Swallowing thickly, he did his best to keep his composure as he faced the most displeased of them all: Lady Rhea, standing behind the marriage altar.

When they arrived, Dedue joined Rodrigue at their place to the side: they would both be the official witnesses for the ceremony, despite the literal hundreds of people crammed into the cathedral. Thus, despite the warm smiles Rodrigue gave him and Dedue’s encouraging nod, Dimitri stood alone before the archbishop, meekly looking up to face her ire.

Yet Rhea didn’t glare at him. She only looked resigned, her green eyes dull as she stared at him. On the altar rested a bowl of oil, and he bowed his head as he knelt before it, feeling the cold droplets of oil seep into his hair as she anointed him. When he had been coronated the same rite had been done: a way to purify the soul before taking the next stage of their life’s journey. Last time the Archbishop had spoken words about his success and piety towards the Goddess, but this time she said nothing. 

As he rose, her gaze bored into him, and a chill ran down his spine as they stared at each other. Just as it had the last time they had faced each other in private, a sense of uneasiness washed over him — there was a uncomfortable foreignness to her eyes, alien and glittering. 

“You swore an oath to me and the Goddess. Never forget it,” she said quietly. 

“I could not,” he replied, his voice far more steady than he felt. 

The answer seemed to please her, her eyes glancing to something behind him. His skin buzzed as the choir’s singing swelled to a crescendo, a burst of whispers erupting behind him that grew closer each second. Slowly he turned, then stared dumbstruck.

White flower petals rained from the balconies of the cathedral, shimmering in the bright light of the stained glass windows. They fell upon Captain Jeralt and Byleth alike, the father dressed in a red and white suit of armor with a scarlet cape. And on his arm, her face and posture perfectly composed, strode Byleth. 

The dress she wore was unlike anything he’d ever seen: no sleeves or straps to hold it up, save a ribbon around her neck to affix the same golden emblem she always wore over her heart. White silk fell in pleats to her ankles, gathered at her waist with a golden girdle that bore each of the crests of the noble houses. Her wrists shimmered with golden bracers, her feet clad with simple leather sandals. In that moment, he imagined he was looking upon Saint Seiros herself, much as she had been during the War of Heroes. 

But — no offense to the saint herself — Byleth was the far more beautiful of the two. 

A lump rose in his throat as she lifted her head to look at him: she wore no veil or circlet, her hair neatly pulled back from her face. They didn’t smile at each other, but she gave him a simple nod, as if to reassure him. He returned it, clasping his hands as he blinked hard to dispel the wetness gathering in his eyes.

In another life, perhaps, he would be openly weeping, shedding tears of joy at the sight of his beloved bride approaching him at the altar. Felix would scoff and Sylvain would laugh at him while Ingrid merely smiled despite his loss of composure. Perhaps his beloved would wipe his tears and gently tease him, and then they would turn to the archbishop and excitedly recite their vows. It would be the wedding he’d dreamed of as a small boy, filled with happiness and laughter.

But in this life, this day was just as bitter as it was sweet. Both he and Byleth knew what this wedding was and what it meant. This was not the fairy tale dream either of them had wanted. Fulfilled dreams were not their lot in life.

_ I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more. _

Jeralt patted her arm once before he left, standing on the opposite side of Rodrigue and Dedue. Seteth the church officiant stood with him, along with Flayn. His chest felt far too tight as Byleth stood alone before him. For the first time, she looked  _ small. _ No armor to bulk up her appearance, no noble air or easy smile. 

_ She is afraid of you. As she should be. Soon enough she will see you for what you truly are, my son. _

Slowly, her motions fluid, she curtseyed before him, sinking almost to the floor. “My lord,” she murmured, her eyes fixed to the floor. 

That was the part of the ceremony he hated the most: the obvious deference. It didn’t fit Byleth at all; she was not one to bow before him or pay homage. He should be the one on his knees, thanking her for sacrificing herself for the sake of his kingdom. 

Instead he grasped her hand quickly, bringing her to her feet. “My lady,” he murmured in answer, escorting her the last few steps to the altar. Her hand squeezed his briefly before she released it, kneeling in front of her grandmother as she was anointed in turn.

Rhea’s voice echoed throughout the cathedral as Byleth rose from her knees. “People of Fódlan — children of the Goddess. Today we witness the union of these two souls in holiest matrimony. Such a bond was given to us by the Goddess Herself, before she ascended to the Blue Sea Star…” Dimitri had heard this sermon three times already during their rehearsals for the ceremony: the story of how the Goddess descended upon the land, created man, and when his hubris grew too great, sent the divine Saint Seiros as a messenger to guide the lost to an age of prosperity. She gave mankind commandments that should be kept, as well as sacred rituals to foster love in the hearts of the people. 

“Such vows are an expression of fealty from the heart. Speak them now before each other, these witnesses, and the Goddess and let them ring of truth.” Rhea lowered her hands, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Dimitri. 

_ Right. Me first. _

The words were the old traditional marriage oaths — legends told that Loog had spoken them at his own wedding, and thus every king of Faerghus recited them to his spouse. Swallowing thickly, he began. “As the Goddess has blessed me in my life, so too do I wish to bless you. My heart and life I give unto you, along with all else I have. My hearth is yours,” he murmured. “My bed is yours. My cloak is yours. My spear shall ever stand ready in your defense. In your darkest hour, in the blackest night, I will be with you always and turn your bitter mourning to sweetest joy. For where else could I go?” He paused, his heart constricting almost painfully before he recited the next line. “Who else could I love but you?”

Byleth said nothing, but her hand gently squeezed his, her gaze kind despite the lack of a smile. He squeezed his eye shut; at least she didn’t bear resentment for him for the hollow words.

Yet… This time, they didn’t feel hollow. Perhaps they did not bear the full truth — not yet — but they felt far more real than they did in rehearsal. 

A curt cough from Rhea jarred him back to reality. “I-I, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, in the spirit of the Goddess who watches over us from the Blue Sea Star…” He cringed as the words flew from him in a torrent.  _ Slow down. Give it meaning. _ “By the strength of the crest that flows in my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen wife.” His thumb ran over her knuckles, and he tried to focus on the sensation of her warm hands through his glove to calm himself. “I promise to love thee wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond — where we shall meet, remember, and love again.”

_ Such pretty words, _ Patricia murmured dryly.  _ It is a shame they mean nothing. _

_ You can promise her nothing. Not when you have not fulfilled your vows to us, my son. _

He bit his lip hard; he couldn’t slip, not here, not now. “I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy family, and thy ways as I respect myself. Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor thee through this life and into the next. This I swear before thee and the Goddess.” Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked at her, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t noticed his wandering mind.

Green eyes reflecting nothing, her lips parted. “I accept your oaths, my husband, and take them as my own. I accept your hearth, your bed, your cloak and spear. All that possess I shall give you in turn. I shall be a shield for your back in companion to your spear, and so I shall accompany you through the darkest valleys and the highest peaks. For where else could I go? Who else could I love but you?”

She spoke so elegantly, so calmly. Yet her hand trembled slightly between his fingers, and he clasped it tighter. The corners of her lips twitched upwards at the gesture, and his heart eased somewhat. “I, Byleth Eisner, in the spirit of the Goddess who illuminates both the land and soul — by the strength of the crest that flows in my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen husband. All that thou hast promised, I swear the same, even past death — where I shall find thee that we may meet, remember and love again.” 

_ Why would she find you? She does not love you now; why would she love you again? _

“So we speak as one,” Byleth finished, turning towards Lady Rhea. 

“I witness your vows and accept them.” The Archbishop sounded almost bored, though she smiled gracefully upon them. “The Goddess smiles upon you and the bond you have forged this day. May She preserve you and your love, even after death.” Raising her hands, she continued: “These are the blessings She would give you: love deeper than the widest oceans, descendants greater than the sands of the desert, and happiness richer than all the treasures of the earth.” Lowering her hands, she stepped back. “Thus are you married, and your marriage binding in all three nations. You may seal your union with a kiss.” 

It was his turn for his hands to tremble as he released Byleth’s. She rose an eyebrow — in all their practicing yesterday, their safe kisses had them holding hands. Yet… 

_ I did like it when you touched my face. _

It was a pathetically small expression of his appreciation. But as Dedue often said, the smallest things meant the most to people. 

So, holding her face in his hands with all the gentleness he could muster, he leaned down and kissed her. Short, but no less sweet than all they had shared yesterday. Chaste. Light. Perfect.

_ Not enough, _ something dark whispered in the back of his mind as they parted, but the cheers and applause of the crowds gathered in the cathedral drowned it out. His cheeks burned as they turned to face the people — he  _ swore _ he could hear Sylvain whooping somewhere. Dedue smiled warmly as he clapped, and to his shock Felix actually had a smile on his lips. Ingrid looked like a proud older sister, and if he was closer perhaps he would have been able to see if she was actually crying. 

It took several minutes for the applause to die down to the point where he could actually hear himself think.  _ The hardest part is over, _ he told himself, looking to Rodrigue who stood nearby with the crown jewels. A few priests laid a cushion on the floor before Rhea and he watched as Byleth knelt upon it. Though her face was carefully composed, he could see the apprehension in the corners of her mouth, in the dull shine of her eyes. 

This was no practice rehearsal. And this time there was no contract to divide the weight of what they were about to do.

“Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd,” he recited, and something buzzed inside him at the sound of his last name after hers — a sort of hyperactive giddiness, or anxiety perhaps. “You come to Faerghus as a stranger, an outsider. You have not dwelled amidst the snows nor sought refuge from the wind. Today I invite you into our people to share our blood. But such an oath one does not take lightly.” He rested his hand on the clasp that held his cloak together. “Do you swear to follow our laws and our customs until your dying day?”

“I swear,” she said calmly.

“Do you swear your loyalty to us? That when the time comes for men to draw swords and stand together, you will stand with Faerghus, even until death?”

“I swear my loyalty and my blade until my dying day.”

“Do you swear to do good to our people —  _ all _ our people,” and here his eye drifted over to Dedue, standing still at Rodrigue’s side, “—that live within our borders? That you will not cheat them, persecute them, or lead them astray?”

“I swear to treat them as if they were my kin. No lies nor falsehoods shall pass my lips, and no bruise nor scratch shall I lay upon another.”

“Your oaths are accepted.” Withdrawing the silver pin from the lion’s brooch, he carefully gathered the heavy fabric in his hands. His poleyns hit the stone loudly as he knelt in front of her, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he draped the cloak over her shoulders. “As I now clothe you in my raiment, I bring you into the blood of Faerghus. No more will you be a stranger to us, but of our kin. Wind and snow will flee from you, and every hearth and hall shall be forever open to you.”

“Full glad am I to wear your raiment and share your blood,” she intoned. “I rejoice in no longer being a stranger but of your kin. I embrace the wind and snow and shall give alms at every hearth and hall.” 

He smiled. “Then you are ready to bear the greatest weight of all.” Rising to his feet and turning to the side, he waited for Rodrigue to approach, sucking in a deep breath. The ornate chest rested in the Duke’s arms, and Dimitri hesitated before opening the lid. Even now, he feared he would break the crown — or even worse, drop it. Every time they’d rehearsed this moment he’d used a simple wooden circlet as a placeholder, and he hadn’t managed to crack that, at least.

Delicately, carefully, and resisting the urge to hold his breath, he took the eternal flower crown in his fingers and lifted it over Byleth’s head. “Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd, first of your name,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as his hands. “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus as is your duty?”

“I solemnly promise and swear,” she replied.

“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in fullest mercy and grace, to be executed in all your judgements?”

“I will.”

“Will you to the utmost of your power maintain and champion the commandments of the Goddess as chronicled in the Book of Seiros? Will you defend their sanctity and live their spirit as well as their letter? Will you protect its priests, its followers, and all those who take shelter in the loving arms of the Goddess, no matter their allegiance? Will you bring to bear your strength and sword in defense of Her Church if Her Radiance the Archbishop summons your aid?”

“All this I promise to do,” Byleth said solemnly. “The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep. May the Goddess bless my soul and give me the strength to fulfill my oaths.”

“Then I can in nowise refuse you your station.” He swallowed thickly; his heart pounded as he looked down at her, mint hair veiling her face. “As your husband and King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, I crown you Queen for the rest of your days.” A lump rose in his throat. “May they be forever blessed.” 

The crown felt far too light in between his fingers as he leaned over her, resting it on her head. When he pulled away, his breath caught as the light of the stained glass window shone down on her, causing the gems to sparkle as she lifted her head. 

It was a sight he would never forget: Byleth kneeling in front of him in brilliant Blaiddyd blue, her mint hair framed by diamond and sapphire blossoms. In that moment it was as if she wore a crown of stars, her skin gilded with the radiance of the sun itself. 

If someone had told him that the goddess knelt before him, he would have believed them wholeheartedly.

Slowly, his hands trembling, he reached toward her. “Rise,” he said, his voice barely more than a husk of a whisper. “Rise in glory and highest honor, daughter of Faerghus, and may you never fall nor falter.”

Carefully holding his cloak closed with one hand so it didn’t fall, she took his other and stood, a soft smile on her face. He returned it with a soft exhale of relief; the most difficult part was over. As she turned to face those gathered in the cathedral, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Lords and ladies, sovereigns and servants, I here present unto you Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd, your undoubted Queen of Faerghus! All you who are come this day to do your homage and service, shall any deny her?”

The hall remained silent. 

“Then rejoice, for Faerghus once more has a queen! May her radiance long shine upon us!”

Somehow the roar of the cathedral was all drowned out by the slight curve of her smile.

* * *

Byleth’s ears still rang from the thunderous applause as she and Dimitri were escorted back into the upstairs of the monastery by her father and Seteth. “Excellent,” he said, giving them a proud smile. “Both of you did very well.”

Dimitri flushed, she nodded; they  _ had  _ done well. Their first time in rehearsal had been full of awkward pauses and stammering. Though there had been a few hiccups — inevitable, all things considered — it had been a good wedding ceremony. 

“Once you’re done eating, return back here for portraits,” Seteth reminded them. 

Byleth turned to look at Dimitri, who still was a bit pink. She felt like she should say something, now that they were married. Something profound, or hopeful, perhaps. They had both crossed perhaps one of the largest milestones in their lives. The occasion called for something, surely.

“Good, uh… good job back there,” she mumbled. 

_ Perfect. Just perfect. _

“Thank you.” Dimitri cleared his throat. “You as well.” 

Silence. 

“Have fun with your friends?” She didn’t mean for the words to come out as a question; her shoulders shrugged at the end as if to save the sentence.

“And you with your family,” he replied evenly.

“Right.” 

_ Good heavens, kill me now. _

“I guess I’ll get going,” she mumbled, gathering up her skirts. Well, what little skirts she had to gather. This dress was nothing like the puffballs she’d heard Flayn describe. 

Dimitri’s hand reached for her, and she paused. Yet he quickly turned his head away, cheeks a deeper shade than before. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

Honestly, it took everything she had to not sprint down the hallway.

In her sitting room was her family and the midday meal — just some fish stew and bread due to the feast tonight. Dimitri would eat something similar with his friends instead of joining her; it was actually something she insisted upon. They would be attached at the hip for the rest of the evening, and he’d been so excited to go visit them when they’d arrived at Garreg Mach. So she ate in the company of her family while he dined with his friends, one of Dad’s large shirts over her dress so she didn’t spill anything on it. 

Surreally — wearing a crown and a wedding dress — she noted that this would be the last time she would likely ever eat with her family like this ever again.

“Can’t believe this,” Jeralt would mutter every few minutes, looking at her with a mix of what she assumed was annoyance and joy. “My little girl.  _ Married.” _ Flayn would beam at her happily from her fish stew, and Seteth would nod every so often.

Grandmother said nothing, though when their gazes happened to meet, her eyes weren’t icy. She just looked… sad. Resigned. 

Byleth didn’t have much of an appetite. 

Carefully shimmying out of her dad’s too-large shirt, the next phase of the day began: the wedding portrait. Flayn pulled her aside to help correct her hair, as well as touch up her makeup. She didn’t really see the point, considering a portrait was more of an idealized representation than anything else. But it was quick, and soon she found herself standing in the hallway again.

Clanking armor announced Dimitri, who apologized for being late — apparently some of his friends struggled with punctuality. Byleth had an inkling as to which one, but she simply shook her head and said it was nothing. 

The painter’s apprentice, a young man with spectacles, ushered them inside the room that had been repurposed as a gallery. Byleth had no idea who the artist was; Seteth had contracted him, reassuring her that the man was well skilled in likenesses. At the behest of his apprentice, she stood in the center of the room with Dimitri slightly behind her at her side. She blinked when Lord Rodrigue entered the room, carrying a large polearm with the head wrapped in a blue silken cloth. 

Dimitri took the weapon reverently, and Byleth’s eyes widened as he removed the cover. The unmistakable burning glow of a relic cast shadows about the room, and something in her chest constricted as she looked at the curve of the blade forged from dragonbone.

Areadbhar, relic of the Blaiddyd bloodline. Grandmother had told her the name was old, ancient Faerghan. When asked what it meant, her eyes had grown cloudy, her hands curling into fists.

_ “Slaughterer.” _

“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” the painter asked, his assistant helping organize his palette. 

The tightness in her chest did not leave; aside from the Sword of the Creator, carefully locked away in the Holy Tomb, this was the first divine relic she had ever seen. And aside from Seteth, who had his own grim look, she was the only person in the room who truly knew what Dimitri was holding.

“Everything is fine,” she said softly, clasping her hands in her lap as she straightened up. “My apologies.”

Dimitri said nothing, but she felt his hand press slightly against her back, between her shoulderblades. Hopefully he would think she was merely tired — which wasn’t exactly a lie, considering she hadn’t slept well last night. 

Together they stood, both trying to keep as still as possible. Occasionally the assistant would have them slightly shift as the painter worked. The portrait wouldn’t be completed today, but sent to Fhirdiad to have it finished with a proper background. Byleth had to hold back a few yawns as the minutes stretched onwards, and she could see Dimitri slouching a few times as well. 

It was probably the most tedious part of the day, and unfortunately that was a good thing.

After nearly falling asleep twice and Dimitri having to softly jostle her awake each time, the painter thanked them for their patience and reassured them that the end product would be “a spectacle for the ages.” The only spectacle Byleth was looking forward to was the feast table, but she managed to smile as Dimitri expressed his gratitude. 

Then they were whisked away again — Dimitri to change into an evening suit from the armor, she to refresh her makeup and carefully stow the eternal flower crown back in its chest. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually worn it even when she took it off her head and pressed it into the crushed velvet. 

There was no outfit change for her. It was a custom that the bride wore white her entire wedding day, and while she had plenty of white dresses, she figured she should get the most out of this one while she could. It was comfortable enough, and the lack of sleeves would be a welcome reprieve come evening when hundreds of people would be crammed into the ballroom in a sweaty mess. 

Flayn buzzed around her like a bee as she cheerfully wove flowers into Byleth’s hair — a much more temporary flower crown. “You should have seen yourself,” she cooed. “Oh, it was a sight for the ages, Byleth! And King Dimitri looked like he would weep!”

Byleth raised an eyebrow; she certainly didn’t see any misty eye on Dimitri’s end. He’d looked more terrified than anything else. But she let Flayn continue to talk; it was rare enough that her aunt had something to be so excited about. 

Hunger and fatigue sapped at her ability to pay attention; Flayn, bless her, seemed to understand, growing quieter as the minutes passed. Soon enough she was deemed ready, and even if she hadn’t, she might have sprinted to the ballroom anyway.

Was it bad that she was looking forward to the food more than seeing her husband again? 

But see him she did, and she raised an eyebrow at the ensemble. Fur still rested on his shoulders over a royal blue cape, but beneath his cloak he wore a black tunic with golden lions embroidered on the front. A dark contrast to her white ensemble. “You look nice,” she said, extending her hand towards him.

He took it, not bringing it to his lips as other nobles would do. Instead, his thumb swept across her knuckles, a touch that was quickly becoming familiar to her. She swallowed thickly as he looked down at her with…  _ something _ in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly, smiling. “You look… beautiful.”

It felt silly, but the compliment felt different, coming from him. 

Before she could dwell any more on that line of thought, they were escorted into the ballroom. Chandeliers glittered, casting light on the polished floors and the immaculate tables arranged for the feast. She swallowed hard again, her stomach rumbling as she did her best to keep her pace measured. Unfortunately, unlike Dimitri’s surprise feast he’d made for her, here she was expected to have a modicum of propriety.

Thankfully, the seating arrangement worked to her advantage — on her side of the high table was her family, along with a few cardinals. Dimitri’s side had a few major lords from Faerghus and their sons; two of them were his close friends. Hopefully they wouldn’t bother her while they tried to eat. 

After sitting down — Dimitri pushing her chair in for her — the dishes were laid before them, and Byleth couldn’t grab her fork fast enough. 

The next hour passed in a blur; she honestly couldn’t recall a single word of conversation she had, except to remember the names of Dimitri’s two friends: Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Sylvain Jose Gautier. What she did recall was the extraordinary taste of the soup — cheesy yet not too heavy on the cream — and the satisfaction of digging into the goddess messenger fish cutlets. Dimitri, fortunately, broke no plates nor bent silverware. In fact, he seemed rather relaxed as he ate, chatting with his friends. Grandmother was engrossed in her own conversation with the cardinals, and Seteth knew better than to interrupt her in the middle of a good meal.

Unfortunately, that meal ended all too soon, and while she was full enough, Byleth did not look forward to the next phase of the evening: dancing and mingling.

Thankfully, Faerghus wedding traditions didn’t dictate that she and Dimitri lead the first dance of the evening. But they were expected to be on the floor and socialize, and so they descended from the banquet table to the ballroom dance floor. Two seconds hadn’t passed before they were approached by all sorts of nobles — most of them wearing furs, which she guessed indicated they were from Faerghus — congratulating them. Putting a smile on her lips, she listened carefully as Dimitri introduced her to each one. As queen, she would be expected to know the names of the influential in the kingdom, and there would be little tolerance for error.

She also paid close attention to Dimitri’s body language as they spoke. With Lord Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier he was relaxed and spoke casually — though she noted that with the Margrave Dimitri took on a sterner tone. He knew him well, clearly, but did not entirely approve of the man; it made sense, considering he was the father of his close friend, Sylvain. She wondered what issue Dimitri had taken with him.

Count Rowe and Count Galatea were warmly welcomed, and Dimitri introduced another one of his friends to her: Ingrid Brandl Galatea, a young woman that held a no-nonsense air, despite how she looked fondly at Dimitri. Count Kleiman, on the other hand, spoke loudly and brashly, and Dimitri’s arm tensed beneath her hand. She would have to gather more information on him later. 

Eventually there was a pause in the seemingly endless stream of nobles, and Dimitri smiled wanly as he looked at her. “I’m sorry; it must be terribly boring speaking with all of them.”

It was, but she was used to it as the scion of the Archbishop. Politics was mainly about connections more than anything else, and she wanted to foster those as soon as she could — not just for propriety’s sake, but so she could figure out how best to help Faerghus prosper. Handling the situation with the Western Church in Arianrhod would only be one piece of the puzzle. To truly effect lasting change, she would need allies, those in power who would listen to her.

“May I ask Her Grace for a dance?” 

Holding back a sigh at the interruption, she took in a breath and turned to face their newest noble offering congratulations. To Byleth’s surprise the person that approached her was not a man, but a woman of slight stature dressed in crimson. 

The Emperor of Adrestria, Edelgard von Hresvelg, held herself with a commanding air as she stood, hand perched on her hip.

Yet that commanding air faltered when Dimitri turned around. “El!” Byleth’s eyes widened as he swept her into a firm embrace, a fond smile on his lips; the emperor was more restrained but she accepted his hug with a polite pat on the back. “It’s good to see you!”

“Yes, indeed. Twice in the span of two moons; surely the world must be ending,” she joked, violet eyes twinkling. “Ah, but forgive me, I have forgotten myself.” She bowed in the masculine style, sweeping her arm out to the side while tucking the other to her breast. “My deepest congratulations on your union, Your Majesty, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Byleth said, nodding her head. “As for the dance—” 

“Your Majesty,” a deep voice rumbled, and she looked up to see Dedue there at Dimitri’s shoulder. “I apologize for interrupting, but you said to let you know if I spotted Sir Dominic?”

“Oh.” Dimitri gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Byleth. I promised an old friend a favor; do you mind if I leave you for a moment?”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling faintly.

“Enjoy your dance, then.” She nodded as he squeezed her hand, an almost sweet gesture, before turning away and following Dedue along the edges of the ballroom.  _ I suppose there’s no getting out of this one, then. _ Really, there was no need to be nervous.

It was just that Byleth had never danced with someone she had rejected for marriage before.

“Your Majesty, I fear I am a poor dance partner,” she began, clasping her hands in her lap. 

Edelgard returned her smile, though there was something artificial about it. “That is just as well; while we wait for your husband to return, we may refresh ourselves with some drinks.” The way she lingered on the word  _ husband _ set Byleth on edge a bit; it was clear that she did not like the way things had turned out the night of the Millennial Ball. Byleth could understand that, in a way. And yet… 

If anyone had asked her why she had refused the emperor of Adrestria yet chosen the king of Faerghus, she would have told them that it was a simple matter of where she was needed most. Adrestria thrived; Faerghus languished. She could do more good for the kingdom than for the Empire.

But the truth of the matter was that there was something about Edelgard that was just  _ off _ to Byleth. That night she had spoken grandly of restoring Adrestria to its former glory, avidly proclaiming that together they could lead Fódlan into a new golden age. Such talk was appealing, but while Byleth had been sequestered in Garreg Mach for her whole life, she still knew what had happened in Adrestria. The Insurrection, then the Reclamation, then the bloody purges. Edelgard had resecured her throne and birthright by force, and whispers still remained that spoke of secret polices, spy rings, and certain nobles disappearing into the night to never be seen again.

Byleth could work with such a person, perhaps. But she couldn’t trust them. And who could love a person they could not trust?

Still, Edelgard was polite in her request, and it would be rude to refuse her. “A drink sounds delightful,” Byleth said, nodding to a passing server. Both women plucked flutes of champagne from the tray, and she followed Edelgard to a secluded corner, where they could watch the dancing couples on the ballroom floor. “I hope you are enjoying the evening,” Byleth said carefully, taking a small sip from her flute.

“The festivities have been rather delightful, yes,” the emperor replied. “Quaint, in a way. My sister would greatly enjoy it all.”

Byleth raised an eyebrow. “I did not know you had a sister, Your Majesty.” 

“She cannot travel long distances; her health does not permit it.” Edelgard’s gaze went cold for a moment, her grip around her flute tightening. “An unfortunate childhood malady.”

“My apologies,” Byleth murmured. 

The iciness left her eyes as Edelgard smiled, though the expression was too flat — she knew the signs of someone repressing strong emotions well. “None is required. My brother is here, and that is quite enough family for me.”

“I do not believe we’ve been acquainted,” Byleth said cautiously; from last she remembered of the guest list, Edelgard was the only member of the Adrestrian royal family confirmed to be in attendance. 

Edelgard’s smile gained some warmth. “I daresay you have. You married him, after all.”

Byleth stared blankly for an embarrassing amount of time before the words finally clicked. “Di—  _ King _ Dimitri is your brother?” she asked, dumbfounded.

Lilac eyes twinkled. “Stepbrother, to be more precise.” 

That made a lot more sense — Edelgard’s chestnut hair and violet eyes were the polar opposite of Dimitri’s gold and blue. Where her face was round, his was sharp and angular. But even the idea of them being related by marriage baffled her; who had married whom? 

“It is a rather tangled web,” Edelgard said pityingly, taking a measured sip of wine. “My father was a good man, but he had his vices, as do we all. He feared that the crest of Seiros ran thin in him, and so he took multiple mistresses to sire as many children as he could — all in the hope of gaining a cherished major crest.”

Now this was something familiar to Byleth; Emperor Ionius’s decision had been a traditional Adrestrian method of securing an heir bearing a crest, but all of her family had found it distasteful. When the plague that had afflicted Faerghus descended on the Empire and killed most of his children — Edelgard’s siblings — Grandmother had coolly called it a tragedy born of arrogance. 

“My mother was one of them,” Edelgard continued quietly. “There was a… falling out, of sorts. She never spoke of it, but she clearly did not feel welcomed in Adrestria. Thus she left for newer and brighter horizons, where she caught the eye of Dimitri’s father, King Lambert.”

“They married,” Byleth surmised. “Thus making you siblings, if not by blood.”

“Precisely. We would not have met before attending the Officer’s Academy, if not for the Insurrection of the Seven.” Edelgard’s lips pursed together in a grim line. “Fearing for my safety, my father sent me to my only other family a kingdom away. That was where I met Dimitri for the first time.” To her surprise, the emperor smiled, taking another sip of champagne. “We struggled at first, finding the other insufferable. The boy had two left feet and thumbs for hands. But we eventually made up and decided to let bygones be bygones. I suppose both of us wanted another sibling more than we wanted to fight in the end.”

“You speak of him fondly,” Byleth noted.

“He reminds me of younger times,” Edelgard replied. A wistful note colored her voice, her eyes melancholy as she watched the dancers spin and promenade around the ballroom. “Things were simpler then. We hardly thought of ourselves as heirs to our nations — just children playing around in the garden, unaware of the storms that would soon take us.”

Byleth’s eyes fell.  _ The Tragedy of Duscur. _

“The years have divided us, changed us in many ways. While I do have fond memories of our time spent together, Dimitri is not the boy I once played with. Neither am I the girl who taught him how to dance.” Edelgard glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “I have come here to warn you.” 

A chill crept down Byleth’s spine.

“I care for Dimitri. I truly do. He is a good, noble man, with good and noble dreams. But that does not mean he does not have a shadow.” Her eyes narrowed. “When I met him again at the Officer’s Academy, he had changed significantly. I expected that; I know what it is like to lose your family.” Her voice dropped bitterly. “That is why I alone could see what simmers beneath the surface. He has one singular goal, Your Grace, and for all of his high talk of improvement and saving his people, that is secondary to his true desire.”

“And what might that be?” Byleth asked coolly.

“Revenge.”

Her breath caught in her throat, any retort dead on her tongue. 

“He is… better than he was before,” Edelgard continued calmly. “But I still see it in him. That shadow. You have seen it too, I presume.” 

Flashes, at times. In the courtyard when they sparred together, when he bought up his lack of taste, when she had touched his eyepatch. They had been short, only brief moments — the rest of the time he had been so honest, open with her. Yet she knew there was only so much one could get to know about a person in a handful of weeks.

That was the risk she had taken by marrying him.

“You mean for the Tragedy of Duscur.” It was not a question.

Edelgard nodded curtly. “He told me as much during the Officer’s Academy.”

Byleth’s nails curled against her glass. “Why are you telling me this?” Was this some sort of petty lashing out, a way to sully Dimitri’s name because she hadn’t chosen Edelgard? It felt presumptuous to think of her doing such a thing, but she’d seen people with better reputations stoop lower for the sake of a grudge.

Yet the way Edelgard spoke… she knew Dimitri. Or, at the very least, she had known him, and for far longer than six weeks. 

“Do not misunderstand me,” Edelgard replied, her voice gentler now. “I do not mean to sow discord between you. But if you married him for the reasons I believe you have, then you must watch and tread carefully. There are those in Faerghus who would take advantage of his lack of vision —  _ are _ taking advantage. You are heading into the lion’s den, Your Grace, and Dimitri may not be able to protect you from the worst of the beasts.”

“I am not a fragile maiden that needs protection,” Byleth said flatly. “Nor am I unaware of those who seek their own selfish gain.” Unless Edelgard was clairvoyant, she knew nothing of the Western Church’s embezzlement. “I thank you for your counsel, Your Majesty, but it is not needed.”

Edelgard paused, then bowed stiffly. “I speak only to protect him, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “Distant though we may be, he is still my family — and I have precious little of that remaining.” Yet her violet eyes flashed with poorly concealed frustration. “I bid you a good evening, Your Majesty. May your journey to Faerghus be swift and pleasant.”

“And your return to Adrestria as well.” Byleth inclined her head as Edelgard bowed once more, her departure heralded by the flare of her cape and the click of heels on stone.  _ You could have handled that better, _ she thought, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. 

Yet Edelgard’s words troubled her, and not just because they were inflammatory and vague. She  _ was _ right, in a way: Dimitri had a shadow. How deep it was, Byleth didn’t know. 

_ A shadow is not substance. It may cast a man in darkness, but it is not his true nature. _

She had to trust in that. That she had made the right decision, that her instincts weren’t wrong. She hadn’t made a mistake.

Finishing her glass of wine and giving it to a passing server, she stepped out of the alcove into the light of the ballroom. It had been a while since Dimitri had left with Dedue; maybe she could find him, hopefully before someone else asked her for a dance. Most of the men and women she passed bowed or curtseyed, but thankfully they returned to their own conversations. She still felt cold from Edelgard’s words, and Dimitri— 

Byleth blinked as she bumped into someone, who turned to look at her in annoyance. “I’m sorry, my lord, I—” Then she froze.

The man standing to her side wasn’t Dimitri. He couldn’t be Dimitri: he was too old, too lanky, and his clothes were all wrong: a white suit with a blue cloak. But the resemblance was so strong that if he’d been two decades younger she’d have thought them brothers.  _ Who…? _

“Ah. So I finally get to meet my niece and he doesn’t even introduce her to me. Typical,” the man drawled, taking a more than polite sip from his wine flute. Byleth noted that the liquid inside was not the golden tint of champagne but something clear; even if not for the color she could smell the alcohol radiating off him in waves.

_ Niece. So he must be…  _

“Lord Rufus,” she said, dipping into a small curtsey. “It is an honor to finally meet you.” 

“You can end the charade, girl,” Rufus Blaiddyd said curtly, and she nearly had to hold her breath to keep her head from swimming; the stench of alcohol only grew more powerful the more he spoke. “I know your husband has nothing but terrible things to say about me.”

Frankly she could already see why, but she shook her head. “He was very respectful when speaking about you,” she said evenly. A technical truth. One could express their dislike of a person respectfully.

“I thought they raised nuns to not lie,” he said bluntly. 

She wasn’t a nun, but she did her best to smile. “Indeed. Honesty is greatly valued by the goddess.” Rufus’s eyes only narrowed, and she glanced to the side to look for Dimitri. Where was he?

“Looking for your knight in shining armor to save you?” Rufus chuckled darkly; her hands curled into fists. “Don’t worry, girl. I won’t do anything to you; he’s won his prize. Though I’m tempted.” His gaze slid downward. “With tits like those I could certainly blow a load.”

It took everything she had to not flinch.

_ He’s goading you. _ She’d heard crass things from the knights before — Dad had tried to keep her away from such talk, but in a military unit it was inevitable, even with her status as the woman who didn’t fit in — but those had always been about other women. Though she knew that her figure was alluring to others, she’d never heard such talk about herself.

_ If this is what he’s like in public, what does he do in private? _ She fought to keep herself from pressing her lips together too hard or even take in a steadying breath. Instead she stared at him flatly. It was clear he wanted to provoke a reaction from her; she would not give him the satisfaction.

“Byleth, there you are! I’m so sorry, it’s just that Dedue thought he saw—” She couldn’t help but relax as she felt Dimitri’s hand rest on her shoulder, his presence behind her like a living wall she could lean against. Even with just that simple touch she felt the tension of his posture, could almost see the hardness of his eye as he looked at the man opposite them. “Uncle.”

“Boy,” Rufus said bluntly.

“It’s a pleasure to see you tonight,” Dimitri said, though his tone was far too stiff to be convincing. She’d always sensed that he was a poor liar, but the hostility between the two Blaiddyd men was so tangible that not even a perfect lie could mask it. Carefully she reached up to touch his hand, and he seemed to relax.

The tension came right back when Rufus responded, “Don’t bother with false niceties, Dimitri. We both know how you feel. You didn’t even tell me that you were going after the Archbishop’s heir.”

“I didn’t find it relevant,” Dimitri ground out. His hand slid from her shoulder to her waist, guiding her away from Rufus. “I’m sure my uncle has introduced himself to you, Byleth. There’s actually—”

“Yes, we’ve gotten to know each other  _ very  _ well in the five seconds we’ve talked.” Rufus smirked. “Why so eager to take her away, boy? Are you  _ that _ afraid I’ll steal her from you?” Byleth tensed as Dimitri’s grip on her waist tightened, his breath heavy against her hair. “Don’t worry. She’s yours now. I wouldn’t dream of whisking her away from you — how else will you finally bed a woman? Though goddess save her, she certainly won’t enjoy it.” He took a large gulp of his alcohol, then glared at the inch remaining as if it had personally insulted him.

“How dare you,” Dimitri hissed. “Speaking of her that way—”

“What you’re going to find out about my nephew, Your Grace,” Rufus drawled, drowning out Dimitri’s words, “is that he’s a spoiled brat and a coward. He talks of justice and fairness and kindness, yet promptly shoved me back to Itha so he could have his turn in the royal chair. And has he done anything to improve matters for Faerghus? No.” Byleth’s lips pursed together as Rufus smiled thinly, his bloodshot eyes cruel and vindictive. “My nephew has probably told you that I did very little to help Faerghus. But considering that I was only allowed to take the reins for a year and a half until he was handed the crown the second he graduated from that school for brats, I didn’t exactly have time to do much. Yet he has managed to do just as little in five years. It’s impressive, really, how  _ impotent _ he is.”

Byleth’s grip around Dimitri’s hand tightened, yet he didn’t even flinch at the words.  _ I knew that they deplored each other, but this—  _ If Rufus was anyone other than Dimitri’s uncle, he could be imprisoned for half of what he’d said alone.

“Alas, you’ll see just how impotent my nephew truly is before you even get to Faerghus. I’ll be impressed if he manages to stick his cock in the right hole. That is, if he can manage to get it hard enough.” He chuckled as Dimitri said nothing. Beneath the calm mask she wore, Byleth was halfway ready to throw out any propriety and kick him in the groin. “He doesn’t even talk back to me, like the coward he is.”

“I find that a true measure of strength is holding back from an opponent that is not worth your time nor energy, your lordship,” Byleth said quietly. 

Both Dimitri and Rufus stared at her in silence. She felt the stutter of her husband’s breath against her hair.

Then Rufus laughed, a cackling sound that only amplified the stench of drink around him. “Well then, boy! You’ve managed to find yourself a woman with fire! Good, perhaps she’ll teach you how to grow a pair. Or more likely you’ll just let her fuck you until you moan and cry like some alley whore.” He chuckled as he leered down at her, his gaze predatory; she didn’t realize she’d taken a step back until her shoulder bumped Dimitri’s chest. “As for you, Your Grace, if you get tired of my nephew’s fumbling, I’ll be willing to show you what a  _ true _ man—”

_ “Enough!” _

That one word held a guttural quality, a sharp ragged edge in Dimitri’s voice that Byleth had never heard before. It sent a chill down to her bones, and even Rufus spluttered to a stop, his eyes wide. Dimitri’s grip on her waist grew almost painful. “You will leave this celebration,” Dimitri commanded, that subtle growl lacing each word. It was as if he’d grown three inches taller, every part of his stature demanding submission to his authority.  _ “Now.” _

“Are you threatening me, boy?” Rufus said incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Yet Byleth saw the trembling in his hands, the way the clear liquid in his glass shimmered as it sloshed about. “Getting so upset over trifling—”

_ “Trifling words?” _ Dimitri released her to move between her and Rufus, pushing her behind him with a sweep of his arm — it was awkward, but she appreciated the sentiment. 

“What do you want? An apology?” Rufus’s sneer was blocked by Dimitri’s large frame, but she could hear it in his tone. “I never got an apology for being kicked out of the house when I was younger. No ‘sorry’ or even a ‘thank you’ when I had to take charge of things because you went off to school to play like all the other brats!”

_ That is quite enough. _

Byleth’s eyes narrowed as she joined Dimitri at his side. “I will ask you to leave this reception,  _ sir,”  _ she said coldly. “You have insulted my husband and I multiple times to our faces, disrupted guests, and have shown yourself unfit to be here.” She raised her hand to beckon for a knight, who would escort Rufus out quietly — despite how unpleasant everything had been so far, she wanted to keep this as calm as possible.

Any chance of things being  _ quiet, _ however, died the second Rufus grabbed her wrist. “You shut your mouth, you fucking bitch,” he hissed. “You don’t know shit—”

What happened next could have only taken a second, perhaps less, but it was frozen in Byleth’s memory. 

With a sound that could only be described as a roar, Dimitri’s hand grasped Rufus’s arm and twisted, tearing him off her wrist. At the same time his fist connected with Rufus’s face, followed by a deafening  _ crack _ echoing in her ears. If Dimitri had been an ordinary man with no crest, it might have caused Rufus to fall to the floor.

Instead he shot back like an arrow released from a bowstring, nearly knocking over an unfortunate lady before crashing into a nearby pillar. The wineglass in his hand went flying, breaking on the floor in a crystalline explosion that seemed to draw everyone’s eyes directly onto them. 

_ Oh dear. _

A cacophony of howls and violent cursing erupted from where Rufus lay crumped at the base, blood streaming from his broken nose in a torrent. Her eyes widened as she stared at Dimitri — his chest heaved as if he’d exerted himself greatly, yet his movements had been effortless. 

And yet… an ordinary man could break a man’s nose with a punch. Dimitri could do far more than just that with a single blow. But aside from that, Rufus was fine. His wrist wasn’t even broken.

Honestly, Byleth would have been impressed at the control Dimitri just exhibited, if not for the fact that they were now the center of attention in the worst possible way. 

_ Fix this, now! _

The world shattered around her, light and dark reversing. As time’s flow came to an abrupt halt, she could see the room perfectly, a painting with a bizarrely distorted palette. A thousand eyes stared at them, each asking the same question. Some she recognized — Dad stormed toward them with a murderous glare, Seteth stared agape, and Dimitri’s red headed friend winced. 

Sighing and rubbing her forehead to dispel the oncoming headache, she pushed back the seconds. Sixty seconds: that was the limit to her ability to manipulate time. Any farther, and the crest stone inside of her would begin to crack, her unbeating heart unable to bear the strain. 

People moved, shadow and light shifting as the world slowly rewound itself. Rufus rose from the floor, flying towards them instead of away. Dimitri’s hand returned to his side. People turned back to their conversations. Slowly, carefully, she took her place at Dimitri’s side. 

_ Forty seconds. Good enough for now. _

Light and dark reversed, and she blinked as time resumed. The roar of people talking nearly overwhelmed her, and she had to grit her teeth to focus on what was going on in the conversation.

“... like the coward he is.” Rufus leered down at her, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Not too late to get an annulment, girl. There’s better out there for you.”

“I am perfectly content with my position as is,” she said calmly; Dimitri’s breath stuttered against her hair. “As for my husband, I find it a mark of strength that he does not waste his time responding to immature insults. You are not worth our time, my lord. You are not worth  _ my  _ time. Now I kindly ask that you remove yourself from the premises.”

“Or what?” Rufus said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll throw me out?”

“Yes,” she replied tersely. Glancing to the side, she saw Jeralt standing guard at a nearby doorway; she was too far away to call him over, but hopefully he would look their way soon…

“You can’t touch me,” Rufus hissed, and she winced as his bad breath clouded her face. “Unless you want an  _ incident.” _

“And you cannot touch her,” Dimitri growled in return, and she had to bite back a curse as he once more pushed her to the side, taking a step towards his uncle. “Say what you will about me, Uncle. But if I hear one more word about Byleth come out of your wretched mouth—”

“Are you threatening me, boy?”

_ This man is far too confident for his own good. _ And Dimitri’s protectiveness, while sweet, was doing nothing to deescalate the situation. Nervously she waved to Dad, but he didn’t look her way, speaking to some knight that had approached. Did she need to pulse again? Maybe farther back she could divert the conversation, guide them towards— 

“Hey there, Uncle Rufus!” 

She turned to see, of all people,  _ Sylvain _ wrapping an arm around the taller man’s shoulders. Rufus’s lips curled up as if he’d touched something foul, but Sylvain just grinned happily, as if he’d found an old family friend. “You’re looking a bit pale there. You sure you’re doing okay?” He patted his arm, flashing them an obvious wink. “Drinks a bit too much at parties like these, you know?” To her shock he actually managed to pull the older man away, steering him towards the entrance to the ballroom. “How about we get you some fresh air, eh, Uncle Rufus? I think that’ll do you good.”

“Get your fucking hands off me, you shit fucking son of a—”

From the scandalized gasps nearby, Byleth guessed that Rufus’s comments did not go unnoticed by those close to them. Sylvain firmly guided Rufus towards the exit, and Byleth let out a held breath as Dad  _ finally _ looked her way, raising an eyebrow. Silently she tapped the corner of her eye, then cocked two of her fingers towards Sylvain and Rufus.  _ Keep an eye on them. _

Jeralt nodded grimly, then picked up his spear and followed the two men at a somewhat discrete distance. Still, several pairs of eyes were on them, and she bit back another curse. Plastering a smile on her face, she curtseyed. “I am terribly sorry for the disruption, your lord and ladyships. Please, continue to enjoy the evening.”

That seemed to do the trick: the chatter in the room instantly resumed, and most guests turned back to their conversation or dance partners. Some still stared, and Byleth realized that they weren’t looking at her, but at Dimitri.

Who was frozen in place, as if her Pulse hadn’t released. 

“Dimitri?” When she gently touched his shoulder, he jumped as if she’d stabbed him with a pin, his eye wide as he whirled around to look at her. She could see sweat beading on his neck, could see the unrestrained panic in his eyes. 

“I-I…” His shoulder trembled beneath her hand.

“Fresh air?” she asked quietly.

He only nodded, and she took his hand as slowly and gently as she could. Dimitri himself applied no pressure, letting her lead him the opposite direction Rufus had gone. Sylvain had wisely taken him towards the front gates and the market place, away from the inner courtyards. There they could find some privacy in one of the tea pavilions.

While most of the damage had been averted by her Divine Pulse, she sensed this was a conversation they needed to have.

Most of the guests were inside — one or two couples jumped to attention and gave their hasty congratulations before fleeing the area, their clothes in various states of disarray. Rubbing her forehead, she guided them into a smaller pavilion, against a nearby hedge; the rose bushes would keep them somewhat out of sight. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly, looking up at Dimitri’s pale face.

A huff of breath fanned her face, and she realized it was a laugh — broken and not at all happy. “Am  _ I—” _ He choked off, shaking his head. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she reassured him softly; it was clear that whatever was going on inside him, he didn’t want to speak of it. Or perhaps his only thoughts were concern for her. Either way, she let her question go. It would not be answered, not tonight.

“I’m so sorry,” Dimitri breathed, and her eyes widened as his fingers brushed against her cheek, soft silk against skin. “I had no idea he would — if I had known he would ever speak to you like that, I…” He swallowed thickly, pure dread in his eye. “Did he touch you?” 

“No.” The lie came easily, smoothly. In this time, this world, he hadn’t. That was all that mattered now.

Yet the answer didn’t appear to give Dimitri relief; he squeezed his eye shut, a shudder coursing through his body. “I cannot even begin to apologize for his behavior, Byleth.”

“You don’t have to,” she said quietly. His eye opened again, staring at her incredulously as she took his hand, interlacing their fingers. “You’re not responsible for Rufus’s words or actions, Dimitri.”

“Still, he…” Something flashed in Dimitri’s eye, an echo of the rage she’d seen before, and she felt the hairs of her neck stand on end. “What he said was unforgivable. Despicable.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “it was.” 

Yet the anger did not abate in his eyes. “I never should have invited him,” he muttered, his voice lowering to a growl. “I knew that something like this would happen, I knew that he’d say something or do something — but of course I let him come anyway. I—” He laughed, a harsh bark that was so different from his soft chuckles and gentle mirth. “I’m a fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” she said firmly. “He’s your family, Dimitri. It would have raised more eyebrows if you didn’t invite him to your wedding.” She squeezed his hand. “In the end, it turned out all right.” 

“All right?” His eye widened. “He said all those things, he—” 

“It was unpleasant, but I’m not a fragile maiden. I’ve heard worse from the knights,” she said dryly. Never mind that their talk had never been about her specifically, and only in hushed voices. “I’ll live with my honor intact, thank you. Besides,” and she frowned as she looked up at him, “his worst barbs were about you.”

For a moment he said nothing, his eye distant.

Then: “He hates me. But I can live with that.” 

Something harsh twisted in her gut at the words. Dimitri had spoken so matter-of-factly, as if it were typical for the last surviving member of your family to despise you. 

_ The last. _

Which made Rufus’s behavior even worse. There was no other Blaiddyd left besides his nephew, and he treated him like that? She considered herself slow to anger and slower to hatred. But Rufus, she could easily hate.

“What I cannot live with,” Dimitri continued, and she froze as his gloved fingers once more passed over her cheek, “is his behavior towards you.” His eyelid closed, hair hanging in his face. “He can call me whatever he likes, say whatever he wishes about me. But you… You should not have to hear such vile words.”

Her brow furrowed, a flash of something hot and sharp in her chest. “And you do?”

His eye opened slowly, and she felt cold as he looked down at her — his gaze heavy and unyielding, a hundred emotions roiling within. “If it is a choice, yes,” he said softly, his voice hollow. “I would take it for you, every time.”

Such words seemed romantic on the surface. Flayn would have squealed about such a declaration of protection. But looking into his eye, feeling the weight of his stare like armor on her shoulders, she did not feel flattered. It was a bit patronizing, what he had said — she was not a child, and she did not need to be sheltered from every unpleasant thing — but more than that…

Edelgard had said he had a shadow. In this moment, Byleth agreed, but she saw a different shadow entirely from what the emperor had meant. 

“You shouldn’t have to,” she murmured. “No one should.” 

He blinked, as if that answer had never occurred to him before. 

Sighing, she rubbed at her forehead, then smiled wearily. “I’m sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist for a moment. “For all those things he said to you. I should have stood up for you earlier.”

Once more his breath hitched, hands hesitantly resting on her back. “You… There is no need to apologize, Byleth.” His voice lightened, and she could tell he was smiling — weakly, perhaps, but he was smiling. She called that a victory. “Some of the things you said, I’m still in awe.”

She snorted. “I’m not that clever.”

“Cleverer than I,” he said, pulling back, and she blinked as he looked down at her. He was smiling, larger than he’d expected. So large, in fact, that she could almost forget this fiasco had ever happened. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Majesty,” she said, folding her arms. Yet she smiled, and Dimitri wearily returned it.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said softly, folding his hands in his lap. 

“You are readily forgiven.” She sighed as she looked at the stars above. “Do you want to go back inside?”

He too looked reluctant — even without Rufus, she sensed that he’d needed a break from the stuffy ballroom and all the people.  _ She’d _ needed a break. But break time was over, and they had to go back to being rulers of Faerghus.

Now _ that  _ would take some getting used to.

With a worn eye, he offered his arm; with an equally worn look she took it, and together they marched back into the ballroom.

* * *

Their wedding celebration would continue for two more days, and the idea was far more exhausting than wonderful to Dimitri. 

Before they had parted to retire to their separate rooms last night, he had tried to apologize for his uncle’s despicable behavior to Byleth, but she would have none of it. Her eyes weary, she had hardly let him speak a word before reminding him what she’d said earlier: she had heard worse and could take care of herself.

Lying alone in bed that night, he supposed that perhaps he had been overbearing. Byleth was a strong woman, capable and clever. Had he insulted her with his worrying? That hadn’t been his intention at all. 

Yet she was his family now. His wife — goddess, it still felt strange to think of her that way. And it was his duty to keep his family safe, even from its other members. 

A duty that he had failed so many times before.

Yet he supposed there was one blessing from the perpetual whirlwind of activities. He was always distracted, and the loud voices of the crowds and the endless stream of congratulations from nobles filled the silence that would normally be occupied by the dead.

Byleth at his side, a constant companion, was also a boon, and one he knew he would not be able to have forever. Once they returned to Fhirdiad, they would return to their duties and this little reprieve would be over. Her hand would not always be in his, nor would he always see that slight smile of hers. 

It was a strange thought, realizing that he would miss her more when they returned home.

But she was here now, and he had to remember to keep his mind in the present. Let go of the concerns of yesterday, focus on the now — that was what Rodrigue always told him. It helped that he had reassured him that Rufus would be monitored; Captain Jeralt himself kept an eye on the man, and while it embarrassed Dimitri to no end that his father-in-law had to watch over his uncle, at least last night’s incident would not repeat itself. 

After a long day of socializing and feasting, the night’s crowning event would be a play depicting the events of the War of Heroes, then the War of the Eagle and Lion. To his delight, he and Byleth would have a private balcony from which to view the play in the monastery’s courtyard — which meant that they could actually be alone together. A chance to let down the mask and just be a tired newlywed couple. 

Sinking onto the plush couch together, Byleth sighed as she let her head fall back, flowers falling from her carefully arranged braids. “Goddess be praised,” she groaned; he would have laughed if not for the fact that he was sprawled over half of it himself. His head ached horribly, and he resisted the urge to take off his eyepatch. The last few hours had been spent in endless conversation with different nobles from different countries, all eager to speak with the two about every topic under the sun. Some had seemed genuinely happy for them, others barely concealing their venom as they glanced his way. 

Not for the first time, he pondered on how miraculous it was that Byleth had chosen him, of all people, to marry.

Byleth’s sandals fell to the floor with a clatter, and he blinked as he saw her rub her feet with a hand. “If I never have to wear sandals again, it’ll be too soon,” she grumbled. He smiled in sympathy — they were little more than strips of leather, and he doubted they were comfortable for more than an evening stroll through a hot summer garden. 

“Fortunately, you will be living in Faerghus,” he noted, sitting up slightly. “It’s too cold for sandals.”

“Good.” Running a hand through her hair, more flower petals showered onto the velvet cushions. “Sorry, it’s just that all these pins are giving me a headache.”

“I don’t mind.” And he truly didn’t — Byleth looked no less beautiful with her hair free and tangled than when she was perfectly styled. Some of her makeup had smudged, a bit of her lip paint smeared on the corner of her mouth. Hopefully no one would get the wrong idea about that. 

Below, the limelights were lit to illuminate the stage and the orchestra began a bombastic overture. Dimitri had seen the latter half of the play many times — it was common to perform it on Faerghus’s founding day — but he’d never seen the first half. Apparently it was more common to perform it in Adrestria, but considering the ties it had with the Church of Seiros, it was an appropriate form of entertainment for the marriage of a church figure.

When he mentioned this, Byleth chuckled. “I haven’t seen it in years. Or well, my father had to take me to a street performance when I was little. I’ve never seen an official production.”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Mm. Grandmother hates it. Frankly, I’m surprised Uncle Seteth told the theater company to perform it.” She paused. “Well, not that surprised.” When he stared at her blankly, she added, “Family inside joke.”

That did very little to clarify matters, but he nodded anyway. “Why does the Archbishop dislike this play?” It was technically rude to speak during a performance, but he figured that since they were in their own secluded space, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone, and the performance hadn’t actually started. 

Besides, it had been a while since he’d been able to converse with his wife — his  _ wife _ — alone.

“There are a few historical inaccuracies, according to her,” she said, relaxing back into the couch as the limelights shone on the stage. “I’ll point them out to you.” 

The story began with Nemesis — dressed in black — proclaiming that with the power he held as a blessing from the Goddess, he would lead Fódlan into an era of glory. But soon he fell prey to his vices: his lust for power consumed him, in a rather artistic flash of light that Dimitri recognized as a fire spell. Saint Seiros then arrived clad in white, her heart heavy at how the people had succumbed to their base desires. She mourned that the hearts of men had failed them, and called for them to arise from the depths they had sunken to.

Only one man answered, dressed in a scarlet robe: a representation of Wilhelm Paul Hraesvelg. He watched as the man drew close to the actor portraying Seiros, reassuring her that he would support her cause. “I will be your sword and shield, my lady,” he proclaimed, falling to his knees before her. “And together, we shall bring light to the land once more.” Seiros tearfully accepted his offer, and Dimitri watched as they embraced, violins playing a romantic score.

“That,” Byleth said, a wry smile on her lips. “That never happened.”

Dimitri blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The romance. Seiros was never interested in Wilhelm that way — she needed allies and he was willing to follow her into battle. They grew closer later in life, but they were never more than fond friends. At least, that’s what Grandmother tells me.” 

“It does seem rather… sudden,” Dimitri agreed. The scene quickly changed as two armies clashed — Saint Seiros illuminated by a limelight as she prayed for Wilhelm’s success. Wooden swords clacked together as he dueled Nemesis. Eventually the King of Liberation fell, and Wilhelm declared that the Adrestrian Empire was the victory.

“And that didn’t happen either,” Byleth said. “Wilhelm wasn’t even alive at the end of the War of Heroes.” 

Dimitri chuckled. “That seems a grievous oversight for the playwrights to make.”

“Well, it’s not about the truth. It’s about the spectacle.” Byleth’s smile faded. “Saint Seiros was the one to kill Nemesis. But it’s more romantic for the knight in shining armor to sweep in and vanquish the enemy.”

Dimitri’s lips pulled down into a frown as he stared at the stage. “I see.” 

The play concluded shortly after Wilhelm had been crowned Emperor by Seiros — though as Byleth had said, the man was long dead by that point. A short intermission followed as the actors organized the sets for the next performance. “I have to admit, this play is rather fanciful as well,” he confessed as the lights dimmed once more, turning to look at Byleth.

Only to find that she was asleep, curled up against the arm of the couch with her hair in her face.

_ Oh. _

His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, hair fluttering with each exhale. Despite the loud music, she seemed fast asleep, her dress pulled over her legs with her arms folded on the couch arm. Her shoulders rose and fell in a slow rhythm, flower petals strewn all over her hair. 

It was a sight he would never forget: silent breathtaking beauty frozen in time.

Then she shivered, and he realized that there was a slight draft in the cool night air. With only her dress to shield her from the elements, no wonder she was cold. 

Trying his best to move quietly, despite the bombastic fanfare, he unpinned his cloak from his shoulders and rose from the couch, crouching before Byleth’s sleeping form. Carefully and slowly, he lowered the fabric over her, tucking the fur mantle beneath her chin. As her hair fluttered in front of her face, he hesitated. 

Then, fingers trembling, he brushed her forehead and swept the stray locks behind her ear. Her skin was shockingly warm despite the chill, and he bit his lip as he pulled his hand away.

_ Already you yearn for her touch, and yet you know she does not love you. How sickening, _ Stepmother sighed in his ear.  _ I thought you were better than your uncle. _

Curling his hand into a fist, he swallowed thickly and sat back down on the other end of the couch. Without his cloak, the night air bit at his skin, giving him clarity and focus despite his fatigue. Below the actors brandished their swords, proud knights of Loog who valiantly swore to defend their beloved kingdom of snow and wind.

He wondered, now more than ever, if his ancestor would not be disappointed in the weakness of his descendents. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The big happy day for our awkward, nervous couple! Thank you for being patient with updating (my computer is broken again and has been in the shop for almost a month, please kill me) and checking this newest chapter out!
> 
> Unfortunately, this wedding is not as joyous as it would be in canon, due to its nature — while Dimitri and Byleth have grown fond of each other, this isn’t a love union (yet). But hey, they get to exchange some romantic vows, all of which save Byleth’s initiation into Faerghus have been pilfered from numerous websites. The wedding vows are Celtic/Welsh, with a smattering of lines tossed in from FFXIV, my current gaming obsession, while Byleth’s coronation ceremony has been completely jacked from the British coronation practices found on Wikipedia. All of these have been adapted to fit Fódlan and Faerghus. While Byleth technically shouldn’t have to be initiated into the blood of Faerghus (basically a fancy form of Dimitri granting her citizenship in the kingdom) since Jeralt is heavily implied to be from there, she was never born on Faerghan soil and has never been there except to see Arianrhod, so I figured why not? (Also I had to have something original/cool for the ceremony) Fun fact — that ceremony used to have actual anointing with blood (you know, since it’s being taken into the blood of Faerghus) but naturally that’s been dropped over time and Dimitri definitely would not want to smear blood on his bride anyhoo.
> 
> In case you’re wondering, Dimitri is wearing his Great Lord outfit and Byleth is wearing basically Zelda’s goddess dress from Breath of the Wild. Her outfit was based on a specific piece of fanart I saw, which has since been taken down from Twitter. 
> 
> As you can see, Rufus is a real piece of ~~shit~~ work, and suffice it to say there’s a lot of reasons why he is that way (which will be explained in the future… kind of). Rufus has always intrigued me as a character, especially since we don’t get to see him but he has an enormous impact on events and characters in canon — let’s just say I was fascinated by Sylvain of all people calling the man a womanizer and Dimitri never really talking about his uncle despite being his only surviving blood relative. This is what I came up with as a result to fill in the gaps. He will appear again… maybe. 
> 
> With regards to the whole thing about the play, I was fascinated along with everyone else when we were able to read all the records in the Abyss Library. The play seems to be a coronation tradition, but I honestly had a fun time with the idea of it being horribly inaccurate because honestly, that’s just how historical theatre goes: you change details to make a more compelling narrative. As for the “family inside joke”... Listen, I see Seteth as an older brother to Rhea, so if he’s forced to do something as stressful as organize a royal wedding in six weeks, he’s at least going to force his little sister to suffer right along with him, okay. That’s how siblings work, I don’t make the rules.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> So I typed this up in a frenzy after someone in the Dimileth discord mentioned an arranged marriage AU... which I am an eternal sucker for. Expect lots of angst, pining, drama, and eventual romance! (and maybe some... sexual tension)
> 
> If you don't mind, leave a comment down below with your thoughts/suggestions for improvement!
> 
> My eternal thanks to Trionfi, who helped me brainstorm a lot of the events that happen in this fic, both past and future.


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